The Third Domain
by Haleine Delail
Summary: Still wondering how Crowley and Aziraphale survived their executions, Heaven and Hell get nervous and paranoid, and it looks like another war may be coming over the horizon... and the whole business will have some pretty extreme consequences for our favourite angel/demon pair (though whether those consequences are good or bad is up in the air).
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, everyone, here's the continuation of my personal take on "what happens next" for Crowley, Aziraphale, and to some extent, everyone and everything else in existence! Not that it's ambitious at all.**

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**If you read "Days To Come," it will help a lot. However, if you did not, chapter 2 of this story will do a lot to catch you up on the details. But here's the less-detailed nutshell version:**

**The actual story: two weeks after the failed Apocalypse, Aziraphale is staying with Crowley (supposedly temporarily, although...). Gabriel shows up and demands that Aziraphale find Agnes Nutter's second volume. When Aziraphale learns that it's been burned, he's heartbroken because he really feels it's a loss to knowledge and posterity. So, Crowley finesses Hell into letting him borrow a time-travel device. They go back to two weeks prior, and talk Anathema Device into giving _them_ the manuscript, since she didn't want it anyway. After that, they have to stay in Tadfield for two weeks, in order to catch up to the time when they "left."**

**The continuity: while Crowley is in Hell, he learns that Beelzebub et. al. have had a series of "meetings" about Crowley and Aziraphale, and how they survived their executions. One theory seems to make the most sense to them, because it's the most terrifying, and it will bleed into this story quite copiously.**

**The shippy bit: meanwhile, our angel and demon pair get closer. They enjoy "creature comforts" at each other's encouragement, namely, good food and a good night's sleep. They discuss their own experiences with, and perspectives on, love and sex. Crowley's "career" has been all about temptation and therefore, indulgence, but Aziraphale's has not. Though they both have the same corporeal makeup, their corporeal _experiences_ have been vastly different. As expected, Crowley is much "louder" in his non-verbal declarations of love, though Aziraphale makes a decision in the end that speaks pretty loudly, as well. We end with the two of them having a very frank discussion in a Tadfield B&B, as to where to go next with their "friendship," and for now, things will remain more or less status-quo... at least on the outside.**

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**Please enjoy this story! Please squee, and please laugh! This is another true labor of love for me! :-)**

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ONE

It was a Tuesday in Hell.

The ceiling still leaked white goo that occasionally, though not always, ate through the desks and flooring onto which it landed. It was foul-smelling and viscous, and not even the demons who worked in the Paperwork Processing department of eternal torment were wont to give too much thought to what it actually was, or where it had actually come from.

Fortunately, there had been bigger fish to fry, over the last ten days, and most demons had been able to keep their minds off it. At the moment, they were setting up chairs in front of a screen, and a very slow computer behind a projector, in anticipation of the fifth meeting they'd had on the topic of what the Heaven had happened two Sundays ago.

Ten days prior, on what could have been an ordinary Saturday in late August, the Forces of Darkness, such as they were, had been ready to see their own evil-doing come to fruition, and the Antichrist and his boisterous Hellhound had been provoked to bring about the end of the world. They were on the precipice of the Final Battle with _the opposition._ Everyone had been poised for the War To End All Wars, the War To End Everything… but what happened?

Well, the Antichrist had been reared as a mischievous but ultimately quite sweet-natured human boy in a charming English village, by eminently normal English people, and _not_ by wealthy, privileged, constantly-surveilled, flamboyant American politicians, who would have hired out his care. He'd been named Adam, rather than Damien or Lucifer or Cain or even Warlock. He'd had friends, a proper school, hugs from mum and dad. He'd been taught thoughtfulness, kindness, and a sense of belonging. And the hellhound had become _that_ boy's conception of what a faithful dog might be, and had been rendered a cute black-and-white Spaniel named Dog. The boy had become resolutely disinclined to destroy the world, and everyone had gone home. Including the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and all of the angels and Archangels, and demons and Demon Lords standing at attention for the coming of End Times.

That was the long answer.

But the short answer was: Crowley. Crowley had happened.

That sunglass-wearing, slang-speaking, trend-following, concern-having, angel-loving, evil-questioning, comfort-seeking bloody snake of a demon, he'd derailed everything, starting with the day Adam was born.

He had handed off the infant Antichrist to the wrong parents, and then had cheekily teamed up with his Heavenly analogue eleven years later to further convince the already defiant boy to challenge his true nature, disobey orders, and effectively vanquish Satan's influence from his life forever.

Crowley, Crowley, Crowley.

That always-swaggering, colleague-murdering, rule-breaking, grey-area-seeing, humanity-rescuing, poor-excuse-for-a-demon, Crowley.

But today's meeting was not about what Crowley had done on that anticlimactic, anti-apocalyptic Saturday. It was about what he'd managed to do in the aftermath, the following day. It was about what the Ranks of Hell were now calling Wet Sunday.

Because, the failed Apocalypse was just that: a failed Apocalypse. It was an evil plan that had gone tits-up. Evil plans got thwarted all the time – it was nothing new, and Hell had always been able to recover and reload. Never on this scale, of course, and Satan himself had never received quite such a thump on the nose before… but ultimately, they _could_ just wait another thousand years, and try again. It was sort of in the cards for them, because, like it or not, _everyone_ in existence was subject to God's Ineffable Plan. No need to have meetings about it – nothing had changed. God was in Her penthouse, Satan was in his basement, everyone would regroup and give it another go. In theory, that Armani-wearing, television-watching, Scotch-swilling Crowley and his icky little boyfriend Aziraphale, could be got rid of, and Armageddon could get back on track, with _competent_ personnel at the helm.

But that was just the thing: the two who had thwarted everything _could not be got rid of_. Wet Sunday referred to the day upon which both Apocalypse-undoers had been scheduled for execution – Aziraphale by hellfire and Crowley by holy water – yet both had survived.

Hastur, Beelzebub, and Dagon had watched in horror as Crowley had stripped down to his skivvies, then stepped into a bathtub filled with a substance that should rightly reduce any of Hell's minions to something that resembled steaming, raspberry-chocolate rice pudding, just before said minion ceased to exist…

But Crowley had not screamed, nor turned to pudding, nor, in fact, had he protested at all. He simply smiled, immersed himself in holy water, and laid back to relax in the bath, as though he were in one of those _Calgon, take me away_ adverts that he'd invented in the 1980s. Then, he'd looked at all of them with daggers in his yellow eyes, and a kind of cheeky smirk they'd never seen before (which was remarkable, because Crowley was the absolute King of the Cheeky Smirk). He effectively pointed out that this new ability of his was a clear indicator that the _game had changed_, and unless they all wanted raining upon them the untold and bizarre vengeance and fury of which he was now capable, they should probably leave him alone.

And by all accounts from those who were there, something similar had happened when Aziraphale had stepped into the column of hellfire. He had not screamed, not twitched, not turned to ash. He had behaved very much as Crowley had, in that he not only survived it, but seemed to relish in it, and in his superiors looking on in confused terror.

_A demon who can survive a bath of holy water. And an angel immune to hellfire._

Something, indeed, was amiss.

Just the fact of Crowley and Aziraphale's collusion meant that they could no longer be counted on by their respective domains for anything. But their corporeal statuses had morphed altogether, which meant something bigger. It was no longer about the individuals, Crowley and Aziraphale, not being reliable any longer, yet still being in the game, which meant that Armageddon was effectively out of the question until _they_ could be dealt with, which, according to the evidence, might be never…

…it was now about _nothing_ being reliable any longer. The laws of celestio/infernal physics were no longer as they had been understood for six thousand years.

And that's what today's meeting was about.

The Archangel Michael and the Demon Analosima had been instrumental in interdepartmental relations – both had worked willingly with their respective _other sides_ to try and get the executions accomplished, in the interest of furthering, ultimately, the cause of Armageddon in the not-too-distant future. Not to mention, sending a powerful message to others in their ranks who might stray from the fold. But it had been decided after Wet Sunday that those channels of communication would have to be closed off, that it would _not _behoove anyone for Heaven and Hell to actually work together to find out what had happened. They would share information if and when it proved relevant, and advantageous, to do so.

On Beelzebub's orders, Hell's minions had taken it in turns speculating over what might have gone wrong on Wet Sunday, and what to do about it. So far, they had had four meetings over it, as different Dukes, Lords, Deacons, Counts (etc.) of Hell had come up with theories, worked through them, galvanized them, and turned them into a series of unreliable Powerpoint presentations. Which was no easy feat, considering that everyone in Hell, save for Crowley, still worked with Windows '95.

Hastur was the first to arrive in the dank, oozy room, and he was actually pleased to be presenting his "findings" to his colleagues. He hated feeling pleased.

It was an idea he'd had even while he was standing there, staring at Crowley in disbelief, watching him sit chest-deep in holy water, and Analosima had encouraged him to develop the idea further (that is, before he'd had Analosima discorporated for the fifth time, just for fun, only to find him again, sitting at his desk, smiling, cracking nervous jokes, all pointy-haired, and expendable). It was a theory that he knew to be intriguing, because it had been on his mind constantly in the ten days since Wet Sunday. And, the more he talked with Analosima (who had happened to be there when Aziraphale had pulled his own wicked stunt in Heaven), the more he believed that the execution-survival phenomenon was explainable only through the influence of something completely unknown… until now.

Eventually, the room was full of demons, now come to hear Hastur's theory.

"I hereby call this meeting to order," Beelzebub called out from the front of the room, as usual, sounding utterly bored. Though everyone knew that she was far from bored; she had a frightened hunger to know the truth, just like everyone else had. "This is the fifth meeting following what has been referred to as Wet Sunday, whereupon, the Demon Crowley successfully avoided a well-earned horrific death by holy water, and no-one can bloody well work out why. So, Duke Hastur, take the podium, and try not to be rubbish."

And Lord Beelzebub sat down in the front row, crossed one ankle over the other knee, folded her arms, and sat back.

"Right," Hastur said, walking up to the front of the meeting space and snapping his fingers. At this, there appeared upon a large screen behind him a white background with the words _Is There A Domain Other Than Heaven and Hell, and What Are Its Interests? _written in black, Arial font. He said, "My presentation is entitled _Is There a Domain Other Than Heaven and Hell, and What Are Its Interests?"_

"Yes, Hastur, we can read," Beelzebub complained.

Hastur snapped his fingers, and the slide advanced, and showed a cartoonish silhouette of a bathtub with someone in it, and that someone had flamboyantly poufy hair, and sunglasses. "As you all may know," he began, in his awkward Hastur way. "When Crowley was in the bath, taunting us, Lord Beelzebub's words were, _he's gone native, he's not one of us anymore._"

When he snapped his fingers again, the words _he's not one of us anymore_ appeared below the bathtub, also in the most uninteresting font possible.

"Well, indeed," said Hastur. "Who is he, then? Or _what_ is he? Our colleague, Lord Mephisto, he presented his theory to you that perhaps angels and demons who spend too bloody much time together can hybridise. He asked if two beings of the same stock could, over the millennia, essentially _catch_ each other's qualities, vulnerabilities, like a lovely, heart-warming, infectious disease. Essentially, he thinks that Aziraphale caught a bit of Crowley's demonic nature and Crowley caught a bit of Aziraphale's angelic nature, allowing the two of them to survive their otherwise glorious executions."

At the thought of "catching" angelic infections, just about everyone in the room, including Hastur himself, shuddered.

"Another of our colleagues, Deacon Oscuro, took it one step further with _The Ying and Yang of Angels and Demons,_ and suggested that an angel and a demon who have hybridised will eventually morph into a separate species," Hastur continued, as he snapped his fingers, and a stilted animation appeared on the screen, wherein a Ying/Yang symbol spun together and became a grey blob. He gestured weirdly at the image, and said, "Oscuro asked whether the essences of Heaven and Hell, when combined, will neutralise, and become a different kind of essence, or substance. Crowley and Aziraphale became… a grey blob."

Hastur inspected the crowd, and could see them either thinking hard (most demons looked as though they might be defecating, whenever they began mulling over a truly heretofore unquestioned notion of philosophy), or discussing the issue with colleagues.

He actually _paused for effect_ here. Then continued.

"Who dared to ask the question of whether there's a way for a demon to _fall_ deeper than he already has, and what happens to the material body when that happens? Why, it was Count Sangrenero! And who dared to wonder aloud whether demons who stray from the fold eventually become angels, as the reverse is true?"

"Yeah, that was Arragorgio," Beelzebub said, leaning back in her chair, even further. "What a load of dragon shit that was."

"Well, all of these theories are interesting – except that last one – but all are, of course, well, dragon shit. I'm here to present you with something bigger, weirder, and profoundly disturbing," Hastur declared.

"Disturbing?" Beelzebub asked. "This is Hell – how much more disturbing can it get?"

"Oh it can get disturbing! I'll disturb you good," he answered, rather awkwardly.

"Stop being a wanker, and tell us what you've got."

"Early in the day, just before the Apocalypse became a false-start, our late comrade, Ligur, received a call from the Archangel Michael, asking if Aziraphale was perhaps working for _our_ side. He was not. But it put an interesting question into our heads, mine and Ligur's, that is until…" Hastur swallowed hard, and a look of fear and disgust came over his face. "That is until his head became a mass of dripping, burning liquid bone and brains, and the rest of him melted to the floor in an imploding pile of sludge and… er, anyway, Ligur and I discussed the possibility of Crowley working for Heaven. But it appears that that was not happening either."

"Get to the point!" Beelzebub screamed, throwing her head back, in a grand gesture of utter, hellish, mind-crushing tedium.

"But just because Aziraphale was not in cahoots with Hell, and Crowley was not in cahoots with Heaven, does not mean that either of them, or both of them, couldn't be working for _someone_ _else_. Someone we don't know about. Heaven and Hell are both wily, but they are both known quantities. What if we couldn't understand what happened with Crowley and Aziraphale in the throes of holy water and hellfire respectively, because they're both working for an _unknown_ quantity? A domain other than Heaven or Hell, a domain that's even wilier than either of the two, so wily, it's managed to stay hidden from us?"

At this, the room fell silent. The only thing that could be heard was white slime dripping onto some stray paperwork, then sizzling as it burned through.

"And if this Third Domain, if you will, exists, then its interest must lie in keeping Creation alive, for some reason," Hastur continued. "It must need the Earth to continue turning, as it were, in order to play out its own agenda later on. Why else would it employ Crowley and Aziraphale to thwart the Apocalypse?"

"Bugger," Beelzebub said, matter-of-factly.

"I posit that Crowley is no longer a demon. Much as he is no longer an angel. When he fell from Heaven and joined our ranks, he did not lose his original stock, his corporeal form, his memories, intelligence sensibilities, nor any of his bleeding bravado, his flash, his disgusting smile, his tomfoolery…"

"Hastur," Beelzebub warned.

"What he lost were qualities specific to Heavenly beings," Hastur said. "He lost certain vulnerabilities, and gained others. Now, he's left his position in Hell for another. Same stock, same corporeal form, same memories, intelligence, personality, and the like… but different metaphysical traits. He lost his vulnerability to all things holy, and gained, presumably, other vulnerabilities. And all of the same could be said of Aziraphale. We just don't know what those vulnerabilities are yet, given that the Third Domain is totally unknown, and…"

"And we're not even sure it exists," said Beelzebub.

"No, admittedly, we are not," Hastur said. "But it is my recommendation, as Duke of Hell, that we dispatch whatever resources needed, to look into it."

Again, the only noise that could be heard was leaking from the ceiling and destroying paperwork. That, and the demon Madegren shifting in her chair, snapping her femur, and cursing under her breath.

Hastur noted with both pride and dread that _silence_ was not a reaction received by any of the other presenters, nor any of their theories. He had hit a nerve here. He wasn't sure whether to cackle uncontrollably, or bite his thumb until it oozed blood.

"Very well, thanks, Hastur, the Dark Council will take your ideas under advisement," Beelzebub declared, slurring her speech. "Now, everyone, fuck off."

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**Thoughts? Feelings? Wonderings? Please leave a review, and let me know you're out there! Thank you for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, here we go!**

**The first half of this chapter is about Crowley visiting Hell, about two weeks after the not-pocalypse, and it is a scene that appears in the previous story, "Days To Come." Except, this time, it's more from Beelzebub's point of view. So, if it feels familiar, it may very well be!**

**The rest of the chapter is a bit of summary of "Days To Come," plus the weeks following, all the way up to the"today" where the real meat of this story will begin, four weeks after the not-pocalypse. You will get a lot of my take on Crowley and Aziraphale's thoughts and motivations.**

**Not the most exciting chapter of fanfic in existence, but hopefully good for a laugh and perhaps a few feels. Enjoy!**

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TWO

It was a Saturday afternoon in Hell. Most demons were, frankly, doing paperwork.

A few others were building Powerpoint presentations.

A fortnight had now passed since the thwarted Apocalypse, thirteen days since Wet Sunday, and four days since Hastur's _Third Domain _presentation.

They were no closer to _actually_ finding out what horrible thing had saved Crowley and Aziraphale from their respective executions, but grinding on the topic had reached critical mass, especially Hastur's theory. The Third Domain notion frightened the ever-loving bejeezus out of everyone in Hell, though Beelzebub had spent quite a bit of time wondering whether Hastur had just pulled the concept out of his arse, or whether he had any conviction in it. The temptation to get in touch with Gabriel was considerable… she just wanted to know if _they_ knew anything… but she reckoned, if they didn't, she wasn't about to tip them off. She couldn't very well just phone him out of the blue, and make him believe she just wanted to shoot the breeze.

Or maybe she could. He _was _quite the pillar of idiocy...

But she considered that possibility a non-possibility. So she contented herself (well, not _contented, _but _occupied _herself) dragging her feet through endless hallways that looked like the inside of an onyx statue's intestine, looking bored, randomly poking people with a burning-hot prod, and belittling the underlings.

And suddenly, like a rescue, like a breath of fresh air in a dank basement, the sudden appearance of _something to do _for an agitated Lord of Hell, there was a ripping sound in the air. Beelzebub knew that sound. It was the _whzp-whip-thip-zrrrrp_ of someone using the main entrance in Central London. Only one demon ever bothered to use that entrance…

She focused on the sound, and suddenly found herself standing in front of the dark-bespectacled entity about whom they'd all been flapping their jaws, since the day he'd backstroked in the deadliest substance known to Hell…

"Lord Beelzebub!" he said, exaggeratedly boisterously. "Just the _thing_ I wanted to see!"

"Demon Crowley," she snarled, as the lost souls groaned and slipped around them. "Or should we revert to your original name, Crawley, as you've come back. Crawling. You know… in an undignified manner. Like a thing… that crawls. Like a snake, because you're a snake. Beneath us all."

"Erm, yeah… no offence, but you might want to practise your impromptu bravado," Crowley suggested. "I mean, when you've got a script, you're brilliant, but when you're taken by surprise, you just sort of… trail off. It's not very commanding, you know?"

"Still talk too much, I see," she commented.

"That's all you've got? Seriously, Lord Beelzebub. Just run drills with Hastur every now and then, you know? Improvisational menacing. Look into it."

"You're impertinent."

"Oooh, burn!"

Annoyance surged within Beelzebub's chest, and she grabbed him by the lapel of his designer jacket, and hauled him through a door that she'd conjured in the same moment. She slammed it behind them, and suddenly, they were in one of the endless office spaces, always with poor lighting, ceilings dripping with something, and the Legions of Hell squinting over mountains of bureaucratic forms and dossiers and briefs and spreadsheets and manifests and notes and...

"Blimey," grumbled Hastur, who was sitting in the front row, doing his Hastur thing. He looked Crowley over. "Look what the cat dragged in. Come crawling back have you, Crawley? That is your real name isn't it? Crawley, like a snake? You know…"

"Oh, dear Satan, please stop with the crawling and the snake references," Crowley groaned. "It's tragically unfunny, and as it happens, I haven't come crawling back!"

"Then you've got five seconds to state your purpose before we destroy you," Beelzebub said, colourlessly.

"Ah-ah, careful," Crowley warned, with one index finger. "Let's not forget that the last time you saw me, I was quite happily bathing in holy water, much to your great personal terror. Remember that? Eh?"

_Of course _they bloody remembered. It's all anyone had been able to think about since then, but she wasn't about to tell him that. Still, she had no idea what he was actually capable of, and she figured there was no reason to incur his wrath yet… just in case. So, she nodded. Hastur just looked down at his hands on the desk.

"How do you reckon that was possible, oh, Lord of the Flies?" Crowley asked.

"I'm sure I do not know," Beelzebub responded, back to feigning boredom.

"Exactly," Crowley spat. "And Hastur, me old mate, if you've been chatting with our friend Michael, up in the top floor office, you might know that a certain annoyingly persnickety angel achieved something similar when _his_ bosses decided to get revengey."

"Maybe I knew it. Maybe I didn't," Hastur grumbled.

"I'm curious," Crowley said. "How many meetings have you had about it?"

"Seven," Hastur said, before he could stop himself.

"Shut it," Beelzebub warned him.

Crowley cackled with laughter. "I can just see it now! A really riveting Powerpoint presentation entitled, _Can Angels and Demons Become One?_"

"It was called _The Ying and Yang of Angels and Demons_," Hastur said. "But you've got the basic gist."

"Would you _shut up?_" Beelzebub growled at Hastur, growing very agitated.

"Well, that question, sadly, remains to be answered," Crowley muttered. "But what about _When Demons Fall?_ Have you lot talked about that? What happens to the substance of a demon when we start to stray from the fold? I might have been your guinea pig! Is it _like_ when we fell from heaven, or is it a much more concrete, fleshy process? And what does it mean?"

"That one was rubbish," Hastur said, uncomfortably. Well, everything he did and said, he did and said uncomfortably.

"Hastur, you complete moron!" Beelzebub shouted.

"My presentation was called _Is There a Domain Other Than Heaven and Hell, and What Are Its Interests?_" Hastur confessed, with his usual _total_ lack of finesse, and utterly not hearing Beelzebub at all.

"For Hell's sake, Hastur, are you fucking kidding me?" Beelzebub screamed.

And then after that, there was silence. Beelzebub could feel Crowley studying both of their faces. In spite of herself, Beelzebub had long-since admitted that Crowley had _a way_ about him, that allowed him to manipulate things with surety and refinement, read people, read angels, read other demons. In almost a human way, he knew when others were uncomfortable, or lying, or both. She and Hastur had no idea how to "act," unless it was her well-practised boredom with all things in existence.

And she knew that he could see their fear. And she bloody hated that.

"A domain other than Heaven and Hell?" Crowley lilted. "What an interesting question."

"If you like," said the fly-infested Lord, trying like mad to act like she didn't care.

"Maybe you lot aren't as daft as I thought," Crowley said, still with a softened voice that she found utterly grating.

But bells began ringing in her head. _Shit! It's real! Crowley practically confirmed it! Shit, shit, shit! _

"Indeed not," she replied calmly, though she was, in reality, panicking. She looked Crowley over rather conspicuously, with disgust in her eyes.

"You're wondering if my very presence here is dangerous, aren't you?" the slithery demon asked.

"Maybe," she responded.

"You're wondering _what_ I am now, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"You're right to worry. And you're wondering what's coming, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"Well, Lord Beelzebub, have I got a book for you!"

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Crowley had returned to his pristine, black, 1926 Bentley after meeting with Beelzebub, with a time-travelling device in his hands, and laughter on his lips.

"The transaction was humorous?" Aziraphale asked, as the demon slid into the car beside him.

"Unbelievably! I've never enjoyed Beelzebub's company so much!"

Crowley went on to relate to his angelic friend the highly amusing tale of Hastur theorising that they, Crowley and Aziraphale, were now agents of a secretive _third domain,_ a supernatural plane of existence, separate from Heaven and Hell, and totally mysterious to all parties involved. If the angel and the demon had, at some point, been transformed into its minions, their angelic/demonic qualities would have melted away, replaced by traits of the other domain… which no-one knew anything about. And _this _is how they survived their executions.

Of course, no-one in Heaven nor Hell would suspect that they'd used their analogous brands of magic to perform a rudimentary glamour. They'd done a superficial body-swap that allowed Crowley to stand in for Aziraphale in the column of hellfire, and Aziraphale to dunk, unharmed, in the bath of holy water on behalf of Crowley. Crowley frequently took great gales of mirth in the idea that it was actually Aziraphale, of all beings in the universe, who had utterly, balls-to-the-wall, terrified the nastiest agents of Hell. And f ever there was someone who wasn't terrifying...

The swap had been all about appearances – nothing more. It was both too simple and too imaginative for the likes of Gabriel or Beelzebub or Michael or Hastur or any other dutiful, supernatural drones who had spent as little time as possible in the company of humans, and therefore, had never touched creativity or good old-fashioned _problem-solving._ Beings like that would assume that something had been done _to _them. Those who followed protocol like imprinting ducks often had difficulty understanding how others _act_, as opposed to _react_.

Aziraphale had been appalled that Crowley would allow Hell's middle management to believe such a theory, but it was, ultimately, the ruse that precipitated Beelzebub's handing-over of the Temporal Plier, the device that folds time.

From there, Crowley and Aziraphale had travelled back two weeks, to the day after Armageddon was derailed, to retrieve Agnes Nutter's second manuscript, which otherwise would have been burned by her descendant and lost to the ages.

After acquiring the book, the pair had had to check into a bed and breakfast in Tadfield, in order to wait for time to catch up with them.

Until the day when they'd gone back in time, Aziraphale had been staying at Crowley's flat because he was being incredibly particular about how his own flat got remodeled, after the Antichrist's resetting of the world. Anyone looking on could see quite well that Aziraphale had absolutely no intention of ever going home again, and that with Crowley was where home was, wherever that may be.

That day, there had been a lot of talk about love, both the physical manifestation of, and the emotional impact of. And an affirmation was made: Crowley had given his companion an "out", and Aziraphale had chosen not to take it. It was the closest they had ever come to admitting that they just wanted... no, _needed_ one another, longed to be together… yet they (especially Aziraphale) still felt they needed to make excuses.

_We have to live together right now because my flat isn't ready_, he told himself. Though he knew that Crowley could see through it. He just wasn't ready to say, _We have to live together because we have to. Full stop._

And then there was that other thing that one may do when one is in love. The physical act. The thing angels aren't supposed to do, but demons and their _temptations_ sometimes engage in, as a necessity. And indeed, Crowley had admitted to "knowing" a lot more than Aziraphale on this count (which wasn't difficult, because Aziraphale knew practically nothing, somehow, even though he'd lived on this planet for six thousand years). Aziraphale had begun to euphemise the act by calling it "seeking joy," and Crowley, in spite of being a demon, in spite of only ever having used the act as a cynical, manipulative device, felt it was a fitting description for two participants in love (or, at least two participants in love's metropolitan area).

_I should probably experience 'seeking joy' with someone (possibly Crowley, because we know each other and he's nearby) so that I can better understand the human experience,_ Aziraphale told himself, and Crowley, numerous times. He was not ready to say, _I want to seek joy with Crowley because I want to, and it feels right, and because we chuffing well deserve it after six millennia._

And Crowley understood this completely, resolved to continue being the patient party, and immediately suggested that they sample the local Osso Bucco.

And this was where they landed when they'd begun their two-week stint, standing still in Tadfield. They spent thirteen nights and fourteen days in each other's constant company, not even parting ways to sleep. It was the most time they had ever spent together, all at once, since The Beginning. No interruptions, no worries about being seen or heard, no agenda, no particular guilt – it was glorious.

In that time, they had a few lunches with Newt and Anathema, had seen Adam Young in passing several times, waving at the eleven-year-old Antichrist from a far, as he biked through the town square with his friends. They tried every restaurant, every pub, drank at least a dozen bottles of wine, and talked and talked and talked and talked. They talked about love, war, friendship, tragedy. They talked about fear and the future. They talked about the Almighty, and Her ineffable plan, and how bloody sick they were of the whole thing… even though they were continuing to go round and round and round about it ad infinitum…

But the best bits were when Aziraphale would lie back on the bed, Crowley would lounge in the leather armchair with his feet upon the ottoman, each of them casually sipping on a glass of wine or a cup of tea, and Crowley would read aloud from Agnes Nutter's second manuscript, and the two of them would try to interpret it.

"Okay, here's another one I can't suss out," Crowley said. "_When a liberator of Mankind, a dispassionate Being of Heofon, becomes at last grounded with his Essential, and takes leave of his ascetic Qualms, the Probing of the Tertiary Territory will commence._ What do you suppose that means?"

Aziraphale, running way past drunk at that stage said, "I think it means Tinkerbell is coming to life!"

"What?" Crowley asked, flatly, who for some reason, had chosen tea that evening, instead of wine.

Whereupon, Aziraphale spent the next ten minutes explaining why this prophecy was definitely about Tinkerbell. Crowley stared at him the entire time with a blank, open-mouthed, half-annoyed, half-fascinated, _what the fuck_ sort of face, but secretly, the demon didn't mind at all, listening to Aziraphale's stream-of-consciousness rantings.

Finally, on that same Saturday when Crowley had borrowed the Temporal Plier from Beelzebub, after getting very cosy in Tadfield for a fortnight or so, they went and hid near Jasmine Cottage, and waited to see the Bentley come round the bend. They watched _themselves_ get out of the car, and use the Temporal Plier, then watched themselves disappear into the past, and into a chain of events that would lead them to this moment. At that point, they were caught-up, and knew it would be safe to get in the Bentley, and return to London.

They did not say so, of course, but both angel and demon felt that they were returning to London, having been profoundly changed by two very quiet weeks in Tadfield.

* * *

**Any confusion? Let me know!**

**Any feels? Let me know!**

**Any laughs? Let me know!**

**And thank you so much for reading! ;-)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Wow, this took a long time to update. I've been having computer trouble, been working on some Doctor Who stuff, and also, reading quite a bit of others' fanfic, which I haven't done in quite some time! But hopefully you aren't too annoyed, because chapter 3 is here!**

**Chapter 2 left off at the end of Crowley and Aziraphale's stint in Tadfield after their time-travel escapade, waiting to catch up with time... or for time to catch up with them. Now, we're back in regular time, they have Agnes Nutter's second volume, they are still adorably stilted in their relationship issues... so what happens now?**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

THREE

Two weeks together in Tadfield had been one kind of glorious – a thirsty, revelatory, very together, almost titillating kind of glorious.

And the next two weeks back "home" in London had been another kind of glorious. It was the glorious of two creatures, somewhat metamorphosed, free to interact like old friends, almost like old marrieds, having their own space, their own time, their own kind of restrained, unacknowledged yet fully-acknowledged, cerebral, blossoming, love. They swam in it. Not necessarily in each other, but in the phenomenon, the domesticity, the breathing room, the luxury, the camaraderie. And to a certain extent, both Crowley and Aziraphale had a chance, for the first time, to swim in themselves.

It was batch number six of crêpes that Crowley had made, in an attempt to duplicate his companion's favourite Parisian street-food. It was a long-shot, but worth it, if Aziraphale could satisfy that intermittent crêpe-craving without having to try out his French (which was worse than his slight-of-hand magic).

"Well," Aziraphale said, savouring the first bite of the latest crop, along with some strawberry purée, and fresh whipped cream. "I do like the buckwheat flour variation, but… it's its own… thing."

"It's its own thing?" Crowley asked, cynically, sitting across the table with a cup of coffee. At home, he usually left his glasses _off_, since Aziraphale was not likely to freak out over his yellow serpent's eyes, as would a human.

"Yes. You can't just say, _would you like some crêpes,_ and serve these, because this would not be what your average crêpe-enthusiast would be expecting."

"There's no such thing as _your average crêpe-enthisiast,_ Aziraphale. There's just you."

The angel took another hearty bite, and through the chewing said, "But if you said, _would you like some Buckwheat Crêpes,_ the crêpe-enthusiast would know what to expect, and would, in fact, be expecting this somewhat heartier fare, with a different texture, that interacts differently with the purée and other ingredients one might add… and he or she would be delighted!"

"I see."

"So, you see… it's its own thing. Not at all Parisian, but thoroughly buckwheat."

"So, not as good?"

"I didn't say that," Aziraphale said, taking another bite, not in the least bothered that it didn't taste Parisian. "Apples and oranges, really. And for what it's worth, I think these would be particularly delectable if you were to give them a Mediterranean flair. Some olive oil, feta, some portobello mushrooms and kalamata olives…"

"Okay, then. Back to the drawing board tomorrow," Crowley sighed, feigning exasperation.

Though, in reality, he quite liked this little exercise, this trial-and-error of finding out exactly what makes Parisian crêpes tick, and what makes Aziraphale so ravenous for them. He had always rather enjoyed watching the angel partake of rich and delicious foods, even before a time when he himself had discovered the not-just-something-to-put-in-your-stomach quality of cuisine. Part of this crêpe-duplicating venture was just about that – watching Aziraphale's delighting in it. But there was definitely a _newness_ to it, the particularity of discovering exactly the right combination of ingredients, exactly the right pan and instruments, exactly the right toppings…

Exactly the right button to push.

Crowley wasn't an idiot, and as a demon, he was well-versed in the id, the basic illogical needs of sentient, corporeal beings such as himself, and his angelic partner-in-celestial-crime. And as someone who had performed more than a few temptations himself, he figured Aziraphale must understand as well, at least on an intellectual level, even if he wouldn't yet let himself understand it on a visceral one. They fully understood exactly why they looked so forward to the next batch, the next breakfast, the next little experiment in crêpe-precision… or simply the next rich meal together.

It was just that, as usual, it was on Crowley to do all of the work – at least for the moment. And he really didn't mind that either. As Aziraphale had reminded him over and over, he was "the nice one," and could not be expected to do certain things… like embrace his own hedonistic tendencies, without hedging and/or any general skittishness.

They sat in silence – Aziraphale eating, and Crowley watching. He had, himself, already eaten one or two crêpes this morning, testing his work, so for now, he was content with just coffee and companionship.

After a few minutes, he noticed Aziraphale's expression change, as though his attention had drawn itself away from the food.

"What?" asked Crowley. "What's wrong?"

"You know what's strange?" Aziraphale said.

"Yes," answered the demon. "I do. I'm an expert in knowing what's strange, in fact. Part of who I am."

"Gabriel has not yet come looking for his book."

"_His _book, eh?" Crowley questioned. "That's how you think of it?"

"No, it's no one's book, save for perhaps Anathema Device, but she doesn't want it. Gabriel thinks it's his."

"You have as much right to it as he does," Crowley reminded the angel. "So does Beelzebub. But I say, since _you_ are the one who took the trouble to get it…"

"I did have help."

"… and _you _are the one who wants it for unselfish reasons, _you_ are the one who should have it."

"You're using _unselfish reasons_ as logic?" Aziraphale asked, with a delighted, teasing smile.

"Yes, yes," Crowley groaned. "But not because I'm nice. It's because I know _you_ are."

_"_Right, right, of course," the angel chuckled.

"So... keep the blasted book. You want it - you know you do."

"Don't tempt me. And anyway, Crowley, we've been through this," Aziraphale sighed. "I don't want the burden. Miss Device's family were slaves to the first volume for over three hundred years!"

"You're six thousand years old!"

"That doesn't mean that I don't feel the passage of time! You know that."

"Then why haven't you pawned it off on one of the bureaucratic wonks yet?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale looked distressed. "Well, I suppose it's because I can't quite bring myself to."

"Then don't! Just tell the Archwanker Gabriel that you couldn't get it."

Again, Aziraphale shook his head. "I couldn't do that – I've already peeked at all the prophecies, and I wasn't supposed to."

"Wasn't supposed to," Crowley scoffed. "Gabriel is not the boss of you. Not anymore… if he ever was. Besides, technically, you only peeked at one prophecy. I read you the rest."

"Still, spirit of the law, and all that," Aziraphale said, more to himself than anyone else. Then, "I just need another day or two with it, and then I'll be ready to let it go."

Crowley studied him through narrowed reptilian eyes. "You don't know yourself at all, do you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You'll never be ready to give it up!" Crowley laughed. "You're a rare book collector – it's in your blood! You have blood, right? You must do, because I do. Do you honestly believe you could _ever _cleanly part with that manuscript, Aziraphale? You're obsessive and meticulous, and you _love _posterity. You _want_ that book, for God's sake, and it would always eat away at you, if you gave it to Gabriel."

Aziraphale, again, looked pained. "Oh, if only there were a way to copy it. I don't need to have to original, just have access to the information. That's what book-owning is _really_ all about – access to information."

"We'll just photograph the pages, then," Crowley shrugged.

"That's a lot of photographs. It would be cumbersome."

"It would be a cinch," Crowley argued, pulling his Smartphone from his pocket, and laying it on the table. "Are you forgetting what century it is?"

"Yes, clearly," Aziraphale said, annoyed. "I do tend to do that, don't I?"

"If you want, I'll take photos of all the pages, and store them away in a computer file, so you can see them whenever you want."

"That would hardly be practical for the likes of me," said Aziraphale, who had broken down and purchased an IBM P.C. in 1985, and had used it a total of four times.

"And that's why you have me," Crowley said. "Well, one of the reasons. I'll show you how to access it. There would be no internet involved, nothing difficult nor detailed. Just a file with a bunch of pages in it, that you could read like paper, okay?"

"If you say so. I suppose I trust you."

"You suppose? Oh, thanks ever so. Is the manuscript still in the top drawer of your dresser?"

"It's in the top drawer of the dresser in your guest room."

"Potato, po-tah-to," Crowley groaned, getting up. "Finish your breakfast, I'll go get it."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

Late that afternoon, it was done. Agnes Nutter's entire second volume of hand-written prophecies, was now a digital file on the desktop of Crowley's laptop computer, over one hundred and fifty photographs, pulled from Crowley's phone, set in slide-show mode, for easy browsing.

They _could_ have used magic for this, of course, but they they didn't want any bureaucrats from either side of the good/evil coin knowing they had done this. In supernatural speak, miracling _could_ be a paper-trail, of sorts.

The two of them now stood in Crowley's office, in front of his five-year-old Samsung laptop with its wireless mouse off to the right.

"It's so cold and impersonal," the angel said, with distaste, staring at the machine.

"Yeah, well, you'll get used to it," Crowley muttered. "I used to think that about you, but you grew on me."

"What?"

"Never mind. Sit down, give it a go."

Aziraphale sat properly down in the high-backed throne with a red velvet cushion, and moved the mouse about just a bit, to get the feel of it. Crowley put his hand on top of Aziraphale's, and guided the little arrow on the screen to the file labelled "NA Prophecies AN – 2."

"Now, do this," Crowley said, tapping his index finger against Aziraphale's twice quickly, to demonstrate how to double click to open a file.

Something struck Aziraphale then – a frisson of something new. This touch, this _type_ of touch was unprecedented, and very, very pleasant.

Aziraphale did as Crowley had modelled, and the file opened, showing a white pane of tiny thumbnail images.

"Go up here," Crowley was musing now, guiding the mouse up to 'view,' then 'slide show.'

The cover page came up then, and the demon then showed the angel how to use the forward and backwards arrow keys, to "thumb" through the volume.

"That's not so hard," Aziraphale said, with a bright smile.

"Nope," Crowley agreed, standing up straight again. "It's all there. And if the manuscript gets burned again, then this will still be here. We could even back it up to the cloud, if we wanted, just in case something happens to the computer, or on the off chance that time passes and we have to upgrade."

"To the cloud?"

"It's… never mind," Crowley said, waving off the question. "That's a convo for another day. The point is… are you happy? Will this drive you non-barmy for the rest of eternity?"

"Yes," the angel answered, with no hesitation. "I can give the original to Gabriel, and still have access to it myself, without him knowing anything of it. Unless it goes to the cloud. Am I right?"

"Er, no… but… good. Now you can hand it off, no harm done. Well, very little harm done."

"What will you tell Beelzebub?" Aziraphale asked, knowing that Crowley had also promised the manuscript to Hell's prominent Bored Lord.

"I'll tell her to go jump in a flaming vat of sulfurous shit," Crowley shrugged. "What do you _think_ I'll tell her?"

"Well… I didn't think _that._

* * *

Aziraphale decided to wait until the next morning to deliver the manuscript. It was always easier to access the Archangels before lunch; after that, they tended to get bogged down in paperwork… incoming souls and all that. Michael and Uriel liked to keep a scrutinous eye on Saint Peter, as they had not trusted his judgement since letting in Galileo, and it had got worse since admitting Elvis Presley. They liked to double-, sometimes triple-check his work, and thoroughly enjoyed sniping at him over grey areas in people's pasts, and minor blemishes on souls.

The two of them had been known to incite debates over the nature of forgiveness, and Heaven's role in rounding out the goodness in the human soul. Aziraphale had got into it with them once, back in 1066 when King Harold had been brought in after the Battle of Hastings. He'd argued for Harold, who had fought valiantly to save his kingdom falling to the Normans, and Michael and Uriel had wanted him turned away at the gates for a few indiscretions, securing his Earldom in East Anglia. Actually, the Archangels had suspected Crowley's work there, but to this day, Crowley swore to Everybody that he hadn't been involved.

But Aziraphale had been on the battlefield in Hastings, had watched in horror the triumph of William the Conqueror. At the time, he felt that Harold would be forever longed-for, and remembered amongst the English, who would certainly _never _assimilate with the Normans, and never accept William as their monarch. He'd felt that it would not do at all to have such a king wandering around in Hell for the rest of time, whilst his people forever praised his valour.

In the end, the Almighty intervened like an annoyed parent breaking up a fight between children, and deemed Harold fit for heaven. Aziraphale had had to restrain himself from sticking his tongue out at his purported "superiors."

Although, he supposed that as many times as he had felt railroaded by the Archangels, Aziraphale had had almost as many personal victories over them. Not just with cases like Harold, or with the very recent Apocalypse, but also inside his own mind. Michael and Uriel were particularly good at menacing, at throwing their weight about, at trying to intimidate the lesser angels and the like. Aziraphale had, more often than not, been able to shake off very quickly whatever annoyance or agitation their infernal tittering had caused, forget about their infuriatingly beatific faces and move on.

Even his long, long partnership with Crowley, he thought, was a win. Uriel had, on two occasions, come dangerously close to catching him performing a temptation on Crowley's behalf, when she'd popped in to check up on the status of a blessing. Gabriel had sometimes mentioned Crowley, as though the angels knew he existed, but Crowley would somehow be too daft to realise there were angels about. Aziraphale and his favourite demon had run into each other and interacted in a not-particularly-adversarial manner at least once per century or more, from the beginning of time, all the way up until they both more or less settled upon England as a home-base in the fifth century or so. Since then, they'd met up at least once every decade or two, both intentionally and unintentionally, and much more often than that, over the past five hundred years or so. And yet, it had taken Michael until _a month ago_ to figure it out.

Aziraphale felt somewhat ashamed in the way he relished thinking about how annoyed Michael must have been when she realised that he was in league or "fraternizing" with Crowley, and the shock on her face in seeing that somehow, "Crowley" was able to survive a bath of holy water. Even more than that, he really enjoyed thinking about all the delicious things that Michael didn't know. Like, they had had an "arrangement" that suited them both, ever since Edward the Confessor's Canterbury crisis 1051. Crowley had taken the initiative on that one, tempting Edward to reject his rival Godwin's cousin as Archbishop of Canterbury, which incited a hell of a lot of unrest, whispering, intrigue and general treachery amongst the clergy, many of whom might otherwise have been spotless characters. But he had also blessed Edward on Aziraphale's behalf, protecting him from Godwin' plot to assassinate him. Edward died in exile, but basically of natural causes, and went down in history as he should, and Aziraphale hadn't had to rush all the way back to London from the Holy Land.

The arrangement not only suited them both on a practical level, but truth be told, Aziraphale quite enjoyed doing _some_ temptations. Though, he had learned recently that Crowley had kept him away from the nastier ones – ones that might require the tempter to get violent or engage in fleshly pleasures – which was something that had never occurred to him on his own, in all those years. He appreciated not being asked to do any of those things. When he thought of this, he forced down a wave of jealousy (actually, he had not consciously acknowledged it as jealousy), and was left with a certain affection for Crowley, specifically for sheltering him from things he'd have known the angel would have been incredibly uncomfortable doing.

Anyway, Heaven and the Archangels were, frankly, an organisation which Aziraphale now felt he could do without. He didn't mind being an angel still, and he realised that some truths would always be constant – he was immortal, ethereal, bound by some laws of physics and biology, but not most. He was able to perform miracles and magic, but the power was, ultimately, borrowed, so he would always, at least, a little bit, have to answer to those who "owned" it, even if he had wriggled free of them. And all of that was fine. Overall, he didn't mind being _him._

But dealing with Gabriel, Michael, Uriel and Sandalphon had been, for six thousand years, the most tedious, frustrating part of his job, and he was glad to be rid of it. The fact that he no longer had a direct line to the will of the Almighty (if he ever had one) was worrisome, but one cannot have everything. He was basically quite happy to rest the part of his soul that had been wound up in bureaucracy for his entire existence, and concentrate on the creature comforts, on living, on existing amongst humans, and relishing in this little victory with Crowley.

And so, one more night with Agnes Nutter's second volume by his bedside (well, by the side of the bed that figured currently in Crowley's guest room), and the knowledge that the entire manuscript had been, as Crowley had put it, "backed up." And then, to Heaven, bright and early tomorrow. He fell into a peaceful sleep, as he had begun to do each night, like a proper corporeal being…

…but to his surprise, the slumber turned fitful..

"Crowley!" he called out, sometime around four o'clock in the morning, before he could stop himself.

He heard the demon padding across the hall almost immediately. His mussed red hair came through the crack in the door first, then his drawn, groggy face. "What? What's the matter?"

"I had a nightmare!"

"What about?"

"Hell. I dreamed of Hell."

* * *

**Yikes, the fevered, hellish dreams of an angel! **

**Folks, I appreciate all the follows! But, if you're following and reading, it's only fair to leave a review every once in a while. (Humans are needy, and require reassurance!) Seriously, it does the soul of a writer a world of good!**

**Thank you for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**The "Crowley's brain" bit of this chapter was difficult to write, mostly because it was sooooo tempting to go off on tangents into the past. So you know what I did? I scrapped a lot of what I wrote, and decided to turn it into a separate story. I have a theory about Crowley's past, and how it all fits with his arrangement with Aziraphale, and I think it's a story worth telling! Probably, I'll try and do that after this is over.**

**Along the same lines, in the previous chapter, I wrote that 1051 was the beginning of their arrangement. However, today, I was listening to the "Good Omens" audiobook in the car, and discovered I'd missed the mark by 31 years! Actually, the beginning of the arrangement was 1020, and in the time before and after, Crowley and Aziraphale had a lot of philosophical discussions over human free-will, and making choices about good and evil.**

* * *

**Anyway, you may recall, Aziraphale had gone to sleep, having decided to turn the Nutter manuscript over to Gabriel first thing in the morning, but awoke at the end of the previous chapter, having had nightmares about hell! What the Heaven does that mean?**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

FOUR

Crowley's bedroom was unlike that of other demons.

As with the rest of his home, it was decorated in dark hues, with charcoal-coloured carpet, and an ever-so-slightly lighter-coloured throw rug at the foot of the bed. The window covers were black plantation shutters, the walls painted black, and over the bed hung fifteen panels of the same stone that lined the rest of the flat, cobbled together in an artistically-textured sort of way.

The bed was on a step-up from the floor, but was otherwise low to the ground. Seven years ago, when he'd decided to move to this brand-new, trendy building, he'd thrown out the old box spring and had decided to switch to a memory foam mat. The bedspread and sheets were rainy-day grey, and there was a black velveteen duvet runner draped dramatically, diagonally, over the top, spilling down the side, with a look of calculated indifference. The light fixtures were simple, silver teardrops, and there was a television on the interior wall.

It was elegant and comfortable… and only slightly severe. So, yeah, definitely unlike other demons' bedrooms.

Actually, it would have been more accurate to say that Crowley _had_ a bedroom, which was one of the things that made him definitely unlike other demons. Because actually, he didn't know a single other demon who had a bedroom. Or a bed. Or bothered with sleep.

And in fact, his flat had _two_ bedrooms. They were just off the minimalist parlour, and were more or less mirror images of each other. The flat was oddly shaped like a T, with a kitchen on one end of the arm, and the parlour and bedrooms at the other end. Down the stalk of the T, there was a long hallway where he kept a veritable forest of terrified houseplants, had a guest bathroom, storage, and an office.

He'd lived in this flat only a few years, but when he'd moved in, he'd had it remodeled to suit his tastes. Or, at least, that's what he _thought_ he was doing. He was a demon. He wanted something elegantly gothic, a touch "spooky." Only, one room wasn't decorated in black, and that was the second bedroom. He had decided to model it after a posh Japanese-style bedroom of which he'd seen a photo in a magazine just before moving in. Most of the furniture was chocolate-brown teak, including a Japanese grid-like headboard that took up most of the wall, with teak partitions and light tan bamboo panes. The bed was like his own, a step up from the floor, but still low to the ground, and memory foam. The bedspread was down and beige, and the velveteen throw across the middle was a shade of brown halfway between beige and chocolate. The window coverings were a lot like the headboard. They slid back and forth, and Crowley had heard them called _Shoji_ by the man who'd sold them to him_._ The floor was light-coloured wood, and there was one area rug on the side of the bed nearest the door, with brown and pink cherry blossoms crawling across it like vines.

When the room was finished, he'd walked into it and thought, "Okay, this is nice, but why the Heaven did I do it?" The décor was so not him, and he couldn't understand what he'd been thinking. An entire flat of medieval-like stone, severe lines, and ash-coloured walls… except for one room.

Well, he understood now.

It was Aziraphale's room, and it always had been. He had decorated it subconsciously to suit the needs and tastes of his best friend before it was ever suggested that the angel might stay there in the flat.

Aziraphale had said, "Well, now, this is comfy," when he'd walked in and seen his accommodation, the night of the failed Apocalypse. And Crowley could tell from his tone, after knowing him for six millennia, that he was sincere.

Of course, that particular Saturday night, Aziraphale had never actually made it to bed, and neither had Crowley. They'd been up all night drinking, reminiscing, and trying to figure out what to do about the prophecy advising them to _choose their faces wisely. _They'd spent a good chunk of the time coming up with the scheme that had so flummoxed both Heaven and Hell, that it had driven Hastur to come up with the weirdly _imaginative_ idea of the Third Domain.

On _this _night, now one month on, after he had backed up Agnes Nutter's second volume on his computer, it was around two in the morning when Crowley finally fell into sleep. They had officially retired just after ten p.m., but lately, with Aziraphale in the flat, he had had trouble falling asleep, enjoyable though sleep could be. He hoped that when things were less "up in the air" with his companion, when their rapport gelled a bit better, he'd be more relaxed. Read: when they could finally just retire at night _together_, he'd be able to sleep like he used to.

He'd stripped off his shirt and trousers, and stretched out in his underwear. These were a pair of black boxer-briefs, and a black sleeveless undershirt. He had noted, whilst undressing, that these had both been undergarments made by Calvin Klein, and both had come in packs of two. The other garment from each pack had been worn in a bath of holy water by Aziraphale, and had been carefully discarded by the angel himself, far, far from Crowley's flat, just to be safe.

But, he'd spent about four hours flipping through channels, pacing the floor, intermittently drinking, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, thinking. His thoughts ran mostly to the last thousand years, when companionship-as-they-more-or-less-now-knew-it had begun. Sure, they'd been friends before that, and it had occurred in several phrases. 1020, though, began their _arrangement_ phase, wherein they would cross-practice their individual brands of supernatural wiles, in order to economise with time and effort. And, probably, so that they could see each other more often, and understand one another better. And Crowley not only appreciated the saving of time and work, but also taking breaks every now and then from being a fiend, and balance the scales himself.

However, though Aziraphale had been mostly in the dark about it until recently, _the arrangement_ had never worked _quite _as smoothly as Crowley pretended it did… which was a thought that filled him with anxiety, guilt, and all manner of other unpleasant emotions. But he couldn't stop his mind from going there, especially lately…

And so, it was the medium-sized hours of the morning before sleep finally relieved the demon of this particular familiar torment.

And it was in the wee hours when he was awakened by his name being called out desperately from across the hall, by a harried angel.

* * *

With Agnes Nutter's second volume "backed up," as Crowley had put it, and a plan to return to Heaven tomorrow to turn the original manuscript over to Gabriel, Aziraphale had fallen into a peaceful sleep, as he had begun to do each night, like a proper corporeal being…

…but to his surprise, the slumber turned fitful.

"Crowley!" he called out, sometime around four o'clock in the morning, before he could stop himself.

He heard the demon padding across the hall almost immediately. His mussed red hair came through the crack in the door first, then his drawn, groggy face. "What? What's the matter?"

"I had a nightmare!"

"What about?"

"Hell. I dreamed of Hell."

Crowley edged into the room and rubbed his reptilian eyes. "It's all right, angel. I dream of Heaven sometimes… it's normal."

"Not for me," Aziraphale told him, his voice breathy and panicked. "This has never happened before!"

"You haven't spent as much total time asleep as I have."

"Crowley, listen! I'm disturbed, can't you see that?"

"Okay, okay," the demon said, trying to recover, and now moving forward toward the angel. He tried to shake off the haze of sleep, and he sat down on the edge of the bed, and said, "Talk to me."

Aziraphale sat straight upright with the covers covering him from the waist down, and folded his hands in his lap like always. "Well, I was in that bath of holy water, and I was doing what I did… trying to act like you, and enjoy the effect I was having upon them. I was being smug, and glib, making Michael miracle me a towel, and just generally being overtly whimsical…"

"_That's_ how you think I act?"

Aziraphale blinked hard a couple of times. "Well, yes, when you have, as it were, bested the enemy. It convinced your bosses."

Crowley shrugged. "Okay, fair enough."

"But then, Hastur and Beelzebub, and others, they started moving forward, and they hauled me out of the bath," the angel said, his voice sounding as though it might break. "And they said they were just going to _keep me all the same._"

"Keep you all the same?"

"Yes," Aziraphale sighed. "I was dripping with holy water, and they were manhandling me, and it had _no _effect on them whatsoever. And they said it was a nice try, but they were going to keep me as their own, and Hastur gave this horrible noise that sounded sort of like a laugh, but really not…"

"Yeah, he hasn't mastered the art of mirth yet," Crowley muttered.

"…and then suddenly, I couldn't hold the glamour anymore, and I turned back into myself. It was just me, all…" the angel sighed again, and stared down at the blankets in his lap. "All soft and white and frightened, in your clothes – just like the ones you're wearing now – and they knew it was me. And they threw me in a dungeon of hellfire, and I felt my skin singe… and that's when I woke up."

"Blimey," was all Crowley could manage to say.

"Sorry to bother you," Aziraphale whispered. "I do know how you enjoy your sleep."

"It's all right," Crowley said, now frowning hard. "Do you think this dream was meaningful?"

"Well, I _am _an angel," Aziraphale pointed out. "You and I both have rather a pointed connection with fate. And especially considering what you and I have done…"

"But do you think they knew? Or they _know_? That we swapped places? Because that's what your dream seems to suggest."

Aziraphale frowned now, as hard as Crowley. "To be frank, Crowley, I would tend to doubt it. I feel as though, if that were the case, we would have heard from them by now."

"I think so, too," Crowley said. "I don't think either side has the subtlety to _know_ what we did, and not say anything. To just lie in wait, and… what? Punish us later?"

"It's possible, but… it just doesn't feel right," Aziraphale commented, rolling his shoulders a bit, as though he could feel the idea in his bones. "But I do think the dream was meaningful. I just don't know how. Yet."

Crowley chuckled and nodded toward the night stand where Aziraphale had laid Agnes Nutter's manuscript. "Maybe she can tell us."

"Do you suppose?"

"I don't know," Crowley shrugged. "I was just making a joke."

Aziraphale stared at the stack of papers with what looked like dread.

For a moment, the demon thought the angel would actually reach out for it, and search for a prophecy concerning an angel in Hell, but he did not. Instead, to Crowley's relief, Aziraphale seemed to shake off the urge. He said, "No, no. I won't do it. I think that, in spite of myself, I really just need to get that blasted thing out of here. I'm glad we saved it from being burned because the prophecies need to be seen, and Agnes Nutter's talent needs to be acknowledged, but… it's setting my teeth on-edge. I hadn't realised it until now."

"Okay," Crowley said to him, with some finality. "Then you can feel safe in handing it off to Gabriel tomorrow, and if you change your mind, we've always got the computer file we made yesterday. Which you never have to touch again, if you don't want to."

Aziraphale nodded. "Yes. Yes, thank you, Crowley."

"Want me to come with you?" Crowley asked, as his instinct was to offer help to the angel, even without thinking it through.

"No, no," Aziraphale dismissed. "Far too dangerous. No, I'll be fine facing Gabriel on my own."

* * *

As Crowley had done upon returning to Hell in order to ask for the time-travel device, Aziraphale used the Central London entrance to Heaven, relieved to find the escalator still running, and visible to him. He arrived in the main lobby, and within a few moments, the posse of Archangels was walking forward toward him.

"Aziraphale," Gabriel's crisp voice said, across the echoing space. "I'd say it's good to see you, but it's really not. Just hoping you have our book."

"Er, yes," said Aziraphale, now, in spite of himself, feeling right back in the role of milquetoast subordinate, usually with something to hide. He held the manuscript out in front of him, and said, "Here you are. It took some doing to track it down, I tell you."

"I'm not interested in the details," Gabriel said, with a fake smile, taking the papers, and then tucking them under one arm.

"Yes," said the nervous (and annoyed) principality. "You never were."

"I'm just glad you got your hands on it, and now it's in ours. And Aziraphale, I want you to know that I don't like you, but I had _genuinely _been hoping that all of this could turn out well for everyone involved," Gabriel told him, managing to sound ever-so-slightly sincere. "I guess it's in my nature. Well, I told you as much, a couple of weeks ago when I asked you to find the book."

"Yes, I remember."

"But, I'm afraid the Almighty had other ideas, and when She speaks, well… I mean, once she started talking, I had no choice but to agree with her. It's kind of my job."

"What are you talking about?" Aziraphale inquired, beginning to feel a horrible sinking in his stomach. "Or rather, what was the Almighty talking about?"

The Archangel Uriel said, "You've done well, Aziraphale, putting Mistress Nutter's second volume in the hands of the Archangels. I don't mind saying so, in spite of your past transgressions. Which makes it all the more difficult to tell you what we have to tell you." She said this completely flatly, and in a way which suggested that it was not in the least difficult.

"Tell me what?" Aziraphale asked.

"Oh Aziraphale," Gabriel sighed, actually taking Aziraphale's shoulders in his hands. "God had a plan. And you thwarted it. Well, you, that little Satanic brat from Tadfield, and your demony BFF. Heaven can't touch Adam Young, unfortunately, and Crowley's already been cast out – that happened ages ago. And you… well, we tried to get rid of you the easy way, didn't we?"

He let go.

"But you survived, you little dickens!" Sandalphon cut in, smiling in a way that was truly disturbing. Of course, anytime Sandalphon smiled, it was disturbing. It also gave Aziraphale the distinct impression that he had as much idea of what was happening, as did a clay jar filled with ground coffee.

"Indeed," said Gabriel. "So basically, we can't kill you for some reason, but we also can't keep you around."

"What?" Aziraphale asked, his face turning hot, and his stomach now doing unpleasant gymnastics.

"Well, you haven't actually _been around_ much at all since the beginning, but what I mean is, we can't have you keeping ties to Heaven," Gabriel clarified. "I mean, even if we don't ask you to do anything, and you aren't actually performing blessings or miracles on our behalf anymore, your soul is still anchored here. Your powers are fueled by Heavenly will. But you are contaminated, Aziraphale, and as long as you're an angel, you run the risk of contaminating us. Remember when I said that I don't sully the temple of my celestial body with gross matter? Same principle."

"Your body is made of flesh and bone, which is standard on all planes of existence," added Uriel. "But its non-standard features are ours, and we want them back."

"So, you're… you're casting me out?" asked the principality, his voice trembling. "But you can't! Do you lot really still cast angels out of Heaven, just for having free will of thought? That's barbaric!"

"Barbaric? Really? You ought to be careful, Aziraphale," Gabriel warned. "This was the Almighty's decision."

"Erm, not entirely," the Archangel Michael interrupted.

"How's that?" Aziraphale wondered.

"The Almighty put it to a vote," Michael explained. "She made it clear that she wanted you gone, but asked the four of us to put in our thoughts. Some of us were more scared than others to disagree with the Almighty…"

Gabriel shifted uncomfortably, Uriel looked at the floor, and Sandalphon gazed out blankly from his stupid, stupid smile.

"But," continued Michael. "Let's just say that the vote was not unanimous. Your casting-out was suggested by the Almighty, but decided by a majority. It was four-to-one."

"Four-to-one?" Aziraphale asked her. "Were you the one?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," she reported softly. "But I thought you should know, the decision was not made lightly, nor unilaterally. And it was not supported by all."

"Well, then, shouldn't there be a trial?" asked Aziraphale. He came _dangerously_ close to telling them just then that _even in Hell, _the most evil beings existence had ever known had held at least a nominal trial for Crowley before attempting to execute him. But he bit his tongue, and scolded himself for what he almost revealed.

"That's a good idea," Sandalphon said. "We could charge him with the crime of freedom of thought."

"That'll do, Sandalphon," Gabriel admonished. "Anyway, it's not about freedom of thought. It's about derailing fucking Armageddon. It's about going _directly_ against the Almighty plan. It's about not just carelessness, but obstinate disobedience. Going out of your way to make sure things _don't _go according to the Will of God."

"I see."

"It's about fraternising with an evil thing from the depths of Hell, and liking it. It's about lying to your superiors for millennia, and then refusing to just _die_, like you know you should!" Gabriel was now shouting. "It's about thinking that your life on Earth, or _any_ life on Earth, is more important than the great battle between Heaven and Hell! It's about being an overall piss-poor excuse for an angel for probably a lot longer than anyone realises!"

The remnants of Gabriel's voice echoed through the space, and then there was, for a few moments, an oppressive silence.

Aziraphale then cleared his throat, and said, carefully, "Well, I won't apologise for having thoughts of my own. And I certainly won't apologise for believing that humanity is _as_ important as Heaven and Hell, if not more so. I won't apologise for putting the lives of seven billion humans ahead of, to borrow a phrase from the Antichrist himself, _finding out whose gang is best._ So, if I'm cast out, I suppose that's that. I'm cast out."

Gabriel tried to stare him down, and Aziraphale could see that the Archangel was disappointed that the soon-to-be-former principality was not expressing more abject fear.

Although, Aziraphale had only pulled his emotions under control for appearance's sake, so as not to give Gabriel the satisfaction. On the inside, his soul was howling.

"You have until midnight," Gabriel said, crisply.

"Midnight? Tonight?"

"Yes," the Archangel snapped. "Midnight, GMT, of course."

"And then… I'll have become a fallen angel?"

"Better known as a demon," Gabriel lilted, and the infuriating fake smile was back. "I assume you'll be on Earth when it happens, and once it does, Hell may or may not get in touch straight away. I don't know what they'll have in store for you. Maybe you could do a lot of the same type of work you've already been doing… unless... er, do they already have an emissary on Earth? Hmm, someone should check that out."

"Very clever," Aziraphale muttered, having been previously unaware that Archangels were capable of ironic sarcasm.

"It's going to be one Hell of a fall. Hmm… it's a pity you don't know anyone who could help you with the transition."

"Again… clever."

"Now, let's see, I'm not a soulless man, obviously," Gabriel said. "So I'd really like to leave you with some wise parting words. Let's see what Agnes has to say, eh?"

"Er… all right."

Gabriel opened the manuscript to a random page and read aloud, "_When a liberator of Mankind, a dispassionate Being of Heofon, becomes at last grounded with his Essential, and takes leave of his ascetic Qualms, the Probing of the Tertiary Territory will commence."_

_The Tinkerbell prophecy_, Aziraphale said to himself, remembering being drunk, and trying to interpret these very words. He now, of course, had no idea why he'd thought it was about Tinkerbell.

"Profound," said Sandalphon.

"What does it mean?" asked Uriel.

"No idea," said Gabriel. "It's for Aziraphale to ponder, not us. And, well, the Almighty, of course."

"Right," she commented.

"Anyway, Aziraphale, it was _interesting_ doing business with you," Gabriel said, snapping the manuscript under his arm once again. "May we meet again on the battlefield of a _successful_ Armageddon, and may we kick your sorry ass."

If Aziraphale had been a different sort of being, a phrase like _self-righteous arsehole,_ or _arrogant twat_ might have popped into his head.

But as it was, his mind was blank as Gabriel turned on his heel and walked away, with Uriel and Sandalphon trailing behind. Michael, to Aziraphale's surprise, stayed for just a moment longer, and made brief eye-contact with him, before following the rest.

* * *

***dun dun dunnnnnn***

**I'd like to say _thanks_ to the folks who fed my total neediness and left a review last time. It really is the sort of thing that can make a writer's day, and incite her to keep going!**

**I'd like to appeal again to your sense of fanfiction camaraderie (or something): if you're following and reading, it's only fair to leave some feedback sometimes!**

**Thanks for reading, either way! :-)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Guys, I can't thank you enough for the influx of reviews! It is so soothing to a writer's soul, to read what people think! Honestly - it's like manna from heaven. Or from wherever. ;-) Thank you!**

**Speaking of which, one reviewer predicted that Crowley would not be happy about this turn of events (Aziraphale cast out of Heaven). Well, read on, friends - you might be surprised at how anger manifests in this chapter!**

**Also, there's a pretty big revelation here... though, is it really that big? Heh.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

FIVE

When Aziraphale had used the Central London entrance to Heaven, he'd known that Crowley was using the same entrance to get to Hell, but he wasn't particularly thinking about his hellish analog at the time. His mind had been occupied with the tedious dread of seeing the Archangels, and anxiety over having to actually hand over Agnes Nutter's work.

But into Hell Crowley did go.

"Well," whined Beelzebub, appearing before him, in one of the dank, damp hallways. "If it isn't Crawley! The crawling-at-your-feet snake!"

Hastur was with her, looking at Crowley with that good old, familiar, uncomfortable, beady-eyed gaze.

"Oh please, oh please, oh please, Lord Beelzebub, I am literally begging you, please don't do the Crawley-crawling-snake, trying-to-mock-me thing. It's really embarrassing. For you, I mean. Just let it go! There are so many other, more interesting ways to make fun of me! Honestly, just say the word, and I'll help you out! I've never made it all the way through a _Star Wars_ film – make fun of that."

Beelzebub looked at him flatly. "Why are you here?"

"To return this," Crowley said, producing a triangular apparatus out of his pocket. The thing had been used two weeks ago (or one month, depending upon one's perception) and allowed the demon and his angelic counterpart to travel back in time two weeks, to retrieve Agnes Nutter's _Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies._

"Ah, yes, the Temporal Plier," Beelzebub said, holding out her hand. Crowley deposited the thing in her palm, and it quickly vanished as though it had never been there. "Any trouble using it?"

"None whatsoever," Crowley shrugged.

"Pity you didn't get stuck in the past," Hastur growled. "Or sliced in half on your way there."

"So, that must mean you have the book," Beelzebub said.

"Ehhhh, yeah, about that," Crowley said, feigning discomfort. "We weren't able to get it. Sorry."

"What?"

"Well, we thought it would be fairly logical to check with Anathema Device, Mistress Nutter's descendant, to see if she had it. Turns out, she doesn't," he lied. "Agnes must've had it in mind for the hands and eyes of someone else entirely, because we now have no idea who has it."

"We?"

"Yeah, we," Crowley shrugged. "Are you _really_ going to pretend to be surprised that I wasn't working on it alone?"

"Nothing surprises me," the bored Lord of Hell said. She rolled her eyes.

"Wet Sunday surprised you," Hastur said.

Beelzebub turned and looked at him with utter disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me, Hastur? Do you just have _zero_ concept of how to keep your bloody mouth shut?"

"Well…" Hastur began.

"What's Wet Sunday?" Crowley asked, wrinkling his nose. It had a delightfully disgusting, hellish ring to it, but Crowley had never heard the term before. Though, he was aware that he'd been out of the loop for a few weeks.

"Never you mind, Crowley," Beelzebub spat. "Wet Sunday is none of your concern."

"Well, he _was _the one who…" Hastur started.

"_Shut it!"_ screamed Beelzebub, and she snapped her fingers, and made the sloppy Duke of Hell disappear.

Crowley laughed. "Okay, I get it. Wet Sunday. Very cute. Very apt!"

"You gave it to him, didn't you? You gave Agnes Nutter's second volume to _him_, your little lapdog, Aziraphale!" Beelzebub said, completely ignoring the Wet Sunday revelation.

"Er, for the record, I don't have a lapdog, and I never would," Crowley said. "And I didn't give it to anyone, because there is nothing to give! Or… there is, but I have no idea where to find it. It's probably in a box, in a broken-down house in the outer boondocks of Nowhere, and it'll take a miracle to find it."

"Then conjure a miracle, Crowley!" she shouted. "By all the Minions of Hades, do I have to think of everything?"

"Don't you think we tried that?" Crowley shouted back. "What do you take me for, a complete imbecile? You know what? Don't answer that. Point is, I'm not, and it might surprise you to know, neither is Aziraphale. And I'm telling you, we couldn't find it! Two supernatural beings could not locate _a thing,_ which means that said _thing _is nowhere!"

"I don't trust you, Crowley," she snarled.

"Yeah, sing me a new one, would you?" he muttered, turning and walking away from her. "_Ciao_."

And then the slinky demon disappeared up the escalator back into Central London.

Hastur joined Beelzebub in the hallway once again then.

"Why does he always talk about food when he's walking away?" he wondered aloud.

"You're a bloody idiot, you know what?" she asked him. Then she sighed. "Well, did you hear the rest of the conversation?"

"Yeah," Hastur replied. Then he growled, "Crowley. Crowley, Crowley."

"Crowley," she echoed.

"Pigment-having, Antichrist-losing, hip-swinging, boot-wearing, book-saving, lying, flash bastard Crowley."

"So you think he's lying?"

"I do."

"Me, too," she told Hastur. "If we're going to be investigating this Third Domain thing, we need that book. If anyone had information on it, it's Agnes Nutter. And if anyone knew what's coming down the pike for us, it's Agnes Nutter."

"Agreed," he said. "We could threaten him until…"

"Threaten him with what?" she interrupted. "He's already bloody immune to holy water! What could we possibly do to him that's worse? We don't know a blasted thing about his vulnerabilities anymore!"

Hastur got that I-may-or-may-not-currently-be-defecating look on his face, suggesting he was thinking.

Beelzebub sighed heavily again and said, "I suppose, in retrospect, it was more than a bit daft to hope that Crowley would just hand the thing over. If he's working for the Third side now, _of course_ he wouldn't want to let us know anything about it."

"Same for Heaven, then," Hastur offered. "That means that his boyfriend might not have handed it off to Gabriel."

"I hate to say it, but I think we need to find out," she said. "And maybe we can trade information."

"I hate trading. It smacks of cooperation. Which smacks of goodness."

"Oh, save it, Hastur. This is totally self-interested of us."

* * *

Crowley paced around his flat like a caged tiger. It was like a month ago when they were uncertain the identity and whereabouts of the Antichrist, with Armageddon days away… he had had bouts of total inability to sit still, then, too.

Today, the uncertainty and agitation came from Aziraphale. He had left this morning in the Bentley with Crowley, and they'd gone to the Central London entrance to their respective head offices (former head offices, really). They weren't sure who would finish up first, but they agreed that since either transaction could take a while, whoever was finished first should just go back to Crowley's flat without the other.

Crowley would have presumed that the angel would just hop on the Underground and be back in a jif, all tickety-boo-like, even if it was some time after Crowley had driven home.

But Aziraphale was nowhere to be found when Crowley returned. And now, six hours later, he still wasn't back.

A lot could happen in the presence of the Archangel Gabriel in the space of six hours – Crowley knew this from experience.

He decided that this was cause for concern. Truth be told, he hadn't liked the idea of Aziraphale going by himself, into the presence of those jackals. All of them were angels, supposedly, but they were not all made of the same stuff. Aziraphale was a damn sight tougher, and yet, softer. In all the right ways. In all the ways that made him _real_, and made the others merely poseurs. For his money, Crowley would spend an afternoon with Beelzebub any day over Gabriel. At least the Lord of Hell didn't pretend to be something she wasn't.

Aziraphale was actually _good_, whereas that stick-up-their-arses gang of Archangelic thugs weren't even particularly nice, when you got right down to it.

"Aw, shit, Aziraphale," Crowley groaned and spat, heaving himself upward and forward out of his office chair, grabbing his sunglasses off the desk and heading out the door. "For Somebody's sake, where are you?"

As an afterthought, he came back and left a note on the guest bedroom door demanding that the angel phone him if he happened to come back, then he ran down the steps of his building to the street.

The Bentley began moving almost before he was in it, and it was headed for Soho. The last month notwithstanding, where does one go to find a wayward angel? For Crowley, the answer to that question had been, for the past century-and-a-half or so, a rare book shop on a corner of London's Bohemian coffee-house district.

He parked, as usual, illegally, directly in front of the shop, and amid protestations from angry humans, he climbed out of the car, and up the stairs of A.Z. Fell and Co. Bookseller.

The sign said _closed_, and the shades were drawn, but Crowley knew that there was a clandestine little corner of the window where the shade was slightly torn and gapped, and if you crouched just right, you could see straight through to the back room. And surely enough, there sat the angel, in his desk chair, but with the desk behind him. He was staring straight ahead at nothing. He was unmoving – for all the world, he could have been a wax statue.

This sent bells ringing in Crowley's head, and he began to try the door, and knock soundly on the window. "Aziraphale! Aziraphale! What the Heaven are you doing? Open up! What's gone wrong?"

He startled the angel something fierce, and suddenly, Aziraphale was on his feet, shaking off a kind of stupor, clutching at his chest, and moving toward the door. He stumbled and fumbled to get it open, and when he did, he sighed, "Crowley."

"Yeah! It's me! Remember me?"

"Yes, I remember you," Aziraphale said flatly, quietly, turning his back and returning slowly to his desk chair.

Crowley shut the door behind him, and locked it. He then watched the angel bend slightly and return to his seated position in the antique chair that matched the antique rolltop desk, that Aziraphale had had from new. Everything about him reverted to form – the stoic look in his eyes, the stillness, the staring at nothing. Crowley had _seen_ him moving, and still might've taken him for a wax figure.

He approached carefully. Aziraphale didn't move.

After he'd stood and stared for over a minute, the demon finally asked, "Angel, are you going to _tell_ me what's going on, or are we going to play twenty questions?"

"I don't know."

"Okay, erm… how about, no questions, just… say, comments, yeah? Let's start with, I was expecting you back at the flat hours ago, and I've been worried," Crowley said. Then he shuddered. "Ew, don't tell anyone I said that."

"I'm sorry. I decided to come here for a while, instead of coming home."

Crowley briefly noted how Aziraphale had called the demon's flat _home_, in contrast to here, which was his _actual_ home. But he passed it by, in favour of, "Yes, I can see that. Why?"

"To gather my thoughts."

"Any luck?"

"No. The contents of my head are still splattered all over the universe, and existence, and the last six thousand years."

"Oh. That's… a bit of a brutal image. Well done."

"Splattered all over you, and Gabriel, and all the things I've done and said, all the foods I've eaten, all the blessings I've done… and of course, the great, ineffable plan."

"Again with the splattering," Crowley muttered.

"The plan! God's plan!" Aziraphale said, finally with some expression. He said it with exaggerated, sarcastic delight. His voice rose, and he got to his feet, and began walking briskly back and forth through the store, from his chair to the European History section, then back again. He began to laugh. "God's plan! God's _ineffable fucking plan!_"

The last three words came out in a shout louder and more violent than Crowley had ever heard come from the throat of a non-demon. His celestial powers seemed to be reverberating with his rising anger, and the walls practically vibrated with the weight of this outburst, his curse, his blasphemy. It was the kind of scream that people in the trinket shop next door would have felt, but not necessarily heard, unless they, too, were supernatural beings.

Crowley wondered if Aziraphale had ever been this angry before. Angels generally considered themselves above the sin of wrath, but then again, there were quite a few things that most angels were not wont to do, save for Aziraphale.

"Whoa, whoa, angel, calm down," Crowley said, approaching him with arms held out."

"Goddamn it, Crowley! Don't tell me to calm down!" Aziraphale shouted at him, not from the heights of heaven, but from the depths of his throat. "I've spent six thousand years trying to be _calm_ and what the Hell has it ever done for me? Eh?"

"Angel…" Crowley tried again, a bit disturbed, in spite of himself, by the blaspheming and the sudden, unfettered cursing. This was _not_ his friend at all.

"I'll tell you what it's done for me," Aziraphale said, as he continued to pace. His steps were quick, hard, and he stared at the floor, and words fell out of his mouth carelessly, like gravel out of the back of a truck. "It's got me bullied by Gabriel and his wacky band of Archwankers. It's made me follow orders I didn't want to follow. It's had me witnessing the drowning of an entire populace by their supposedly _benevolent_ God, and standing by as a humble and kind carpenter from Galilee is tortured and murdered for defending the Will of the Almighty, while they all just let it fucking happen! Not to mention the _myriad, _the bloody _shedload_ of other atrocities like it! Being calm has made me say things, for _millennia – _do you hear that? _Millennia! – _like 'well, it's best not to speculate,' and 'we're not meant to understand,' and 'the Almighty will fix everything!' none of which I ever really believed!

"But I couldn't just _be_ _that _guy. No, no. God couldn't just make me to be an obedient angel of Her Will, because that would mean I'm infallible, and we can't have that, can we? So, I have free will! Huzzah, isn't it grand? And with my free will, I've chosen to be calm, like an angel should. Yes, yes, let's be calm, and never get riled – we'll just go with the flow, as they say, and thwart the wiles of the enemy at every turn… calmly, and with the utmost dignity."

There was a long silence while Aziraphale paced for about ten seconds, and then continued.

"I swear to you, I've only tried to be the best _me_ I can be. But being me, mixed with free will… oh ho! Aren't I naughty boy! It's made me relish this world, want to protect the human race, fall in love with a demon, become attached to this planet, care about the mortal coil, turn into a food snob, and a book snob, and a clothing snob and someone who values practicality over protocol. And I get away with it for millennia upon millennia! Then suddenly, they see me use my free will to help avert a cruel plan to kill seven billion innocent people… and I wind up here. "Aziraphale stopped pacing then, and with his back to his companion, he stared at the floor. "Despondent. Fallen. _This_ is what being calm and scrupulous has done for me."

Crowley's heart was pounding from what he'd just heard, but he didn't think this would be a good time to focus on the _in love _bit. The angel clearly hadn't fully meant to say it, it was more like word-vomit, made of anger and thoughts and six thousand years of self-oppression. So, first things had to come first.

"Aziraphale," Crowley whispered, because he did not have the wherewithal to speak any more loudly. "Did you say… _fallen?_"

Aziraphale turned and faced him, his eyes swimming with tears. "I've been cast out. Starting at midnight, I am no longer amongst the Celestial Assembly."

"So, you'll be what?" Crowley asked, ripping off his glasses and squinting in disbelief at Aziraphale. "A demon?"

"That's what happens when angels fall, isn't it?" Aziraphale asked, rather curtly.

"So I've heard, yes," Crowley answered. He took a pause, then walked forward toward the angel, and dared to take him by the hands. This was not met with resistance in the slightest. "Look, I don't want to minimise your pain, because, believe me, I know how you feel just now, and I can _feel_ your anger – I could feel it from across the room. It's like a crashing tide… if the sea were made up of leaky nine-volt batteries. And I can't say that I blame you. But you know from experience, Aziraphale, and from hanging out with me for six thousand years: your life isn't going to be all that different. Especially now. Both sides are terrified of us, and now they've got this stupid theory about a Third Domain. It's fifty-fifty Hell will even notice you're on the roster. And if they do, I fully doubt they'll come looking for you, 'cause they know they'll have to deal with me."

Aziraphale took a long, deep breath, pulled his hands gently away, and once more sat down in his chair. "I suppose you're right," he said, resignedly. "I can still run this shop, I can still eat the foods I like, I can still do blessings or miracles if I want to, and I can still…"

He stopped short and instinctively looked up at Crowley, then looked sheepishly away.

"You can still participate in my crêpe-making experiment," Crowley said.

"Yes. That's what I was going to say."

Crowley couldn't help but smile a little bit, at what went unspoken there. _They could still be together –_ nothing was going to change in that regard. And there was something beautiful about both of them being demons. They had always been of the same original essence, but their _auras_ would be more similar, once the change was made. Their oscillations, vibrations, their sensibilities would be more on-par, even if their personalities remained disparate. Honestly, Crowley could think of worse contingencies than living in sin with another demon, shaped like Aziraphale. He could think of worse things, indeed.

"I don't understand why you didn't just come home," Crowley said, now taking a seat and stretching out on the sofa. "Did you not think you could tell me?"

Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap. "I was ashamed."

"Ashamed? Of what?"

"Just… ashamed. Of having done wrong and being punished for it."

"You were ashamed to tell _me?_ Really, _me?_"

Aziraphale shrugged. "I know it's absurd, all things considered, but it's in my nature. For a little while longer, anyway."

"Well, you've got nothing to be ashamed of from my end. I'm here, same as always, sitting by your side, plotting the next move with you. Though, now that I'm not the only sinister one, perhaps I can sit on the right from time to time, eh? Even when we're not in the car."

"Heh," Aziraphale chuckled. "Yes, perhaps. So, Crowley, what will actually _happen_ at the stroke of midnight? Will I suddenly get the urge to do bad things?"

"Of course not," Crowley spat, as though it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. "You know that, angel! Blimey, I guess I have to stop calling you that."

"Oh, please don't," Aziraphale said, with a tight smile. "Would you mind? I'd really like it if you continued to say _angel_. It would be sort of a nice thing that… well, it could be one thing that never had to change, couldn't it?"

Crowley smiled. "Okay, you've got it. But as for what will happen… I don't know, exactly. It's a different experience for every demon, from what I understand. I had the sensation of falling, falling, falling, like a million miles per hour, through the fabric of creation, ripping through threads of the universe for hours. Or days. Or it could have been thirty seconds - I don't know now, and I didn't know then. It was, frankly, horrifying and bloody amazing, all at once. Until I stopped falling by making a big splash in a lake of boiling sulfur. I had to climb out, and when I reached the shore, Lord Beelzebub was waiting to take me into the fold. The rest of the story, you already know."

"Good gracious, I wonder what it will be like for me," Aziraphale mused. "I wonder if I will feel any different."

"Not on the inside, as such," said Crowley. Then he looked around the shop. "But I'll tell you what needs to be done before the change."

"What's that?"

The demon stood up and crossed the room. He reached out with his thumb and forefinger and picked up the Bible from the little shelf atop Aziraphale's desk. It immediately began to smoke and sizzle against his fingers, and he dropped it on the floor, then shook out his fingers to ease the burn.

"You've got to get rid of stuff like _that_," he said.

* * *

**Okay, a few thoughts:**

**1\. I hope Aziraphale's rant is surprising, yet still in-character. I think we all know that he will curse when pushed, and I think he could be a serious badass if he ever chose to.**

**2\. There seems to be a whole "genre" of fanfiction devoted to Protective Crowley. This is, indeed, intriguing. I suppose there could be an alternative version of these events which sees Crowley lashing out and going all Lovesick Demon Magic on Gabriel. I just didn't go that direction!**

**3\. I realize that Aziraphale accepts Crowley's comforts, and turns his anger around rather quickly. But Crowley has made an entire existence out of being incredibly persuasive, and... well, stay tuned for chapter 6. :-)**

**4\. As always, I'd love a review! You guys are amazing, and I appreciate your reading this story!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Well, Aziraphale has had his sad/angry freak-out already, which is understandable. But what about the fear? And what can his best friend do to help?**

**And while we're on the subject of best friends, as you may have guessed, this whole "ship" is headed onto some uncharted seas. ;-) Just stay on-board, and we'll get there!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

SIX

The two of them combed through the book shop over the next few hours, and weeded out Bibles, Korans, Talmuds, Vedic texts, copies of _Tao Te Ching_, and anything else in the shop that could have been considered "holy."

"Oh, dear," Aziraphale fretted, seeing the very large stack of books now in the middle of the floor of the shop. "I don't think I can bear to part with these. I've spent centuries and centuries and centuries amassing this collection. Crowley, do you know, I have the most extensive collection of irregular Bibles in the world?"

The demon, who was standing across the pile wearing oven mitts, answered, "I thought we could just store them somewhere. You know, along with a couple sets of haz-mat gloves aprons, that way you can still access them. Just like Agnes' manuscript. Only less convenient."

"Well, I was renting a storage space in the rectory at Our Lady of the Assumption and Saint Gregory, but I suppose that's out of the question, now," Aziraphale said. "I'll have to go and return the key to Father Lawrence, and get my deposit back."

"You'd better get a shift on," Crowley warned. "If you wait until tomorrow, that task will be a lot harder."

"I suppose that's true," Aziraphale sighed. "Well, then, Crowley, would you mind perhaps leasing a storage locker of some sort, while I go speak to Father Lawrence?"

"Here's a novel thought," Crowley said. He paused for effect, and took off his mitts, laying them down on a display table. "Why don't we put them upstairs in your flat."

"We couldn't do that! The books would take up too much space!"

"Too much space? The place is sitting empty!"

"Well, for the moment, yes, but…"

"Really?" Crowley interrupted. "Are we _really_, after all the shit that's gone down today, still pretending that you have any intention of going back up there to live?"

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, staring at the floor.

"I'm a patient demon, Aziraphale, and I've kept mum because you're you, and I know you well, and I know you've got your little hang-ups, and you have your adorable excuses for why you do the things you do. Frankly, it's part of the magic that is _you_. But today of all days, can't we just admit, you're in my flat to stay?"

"Well, I suppose it only makes sense now, doesn't it?" Aziraphale practically murmured, not making eye-contact, and wearing a shy smile. "I suppose I will have to let go of my _little hang-ups_, as you put it. No room for that any longer."

"Not _all _of your hang-ups - just the one. We need space for books that will begin to literally _burn your flesh_ in the next eight hours, and there's a perfectly good, perfectly empty space upstairs, which you already happen to own. If you continue to be all proper and angelic on me, then we'll have to find another space, and then transport them, which I don't fancy, and which will be twice as difficult if we are still working on it after midnight."

Aziraphale smiled slightly. "All right, then. Let's put them upstairs. I'll never come back to live up there… I don't suppose I ever planned to."

Crowley desperately wanted to go further, and ask why, and what does it mean, and shouldn't they be breaking down other barriers now as well. But he recognized this in himself, the occasional tendency to want to force things. Once in a great while, something would happen, that would bring his frustration and desire to the surface. He's supposed that today, it was Aziraphale's fevered confession that he was in love with a demon, even if he hadn't fully realized he'd said it.

But, ultimately, Crowley left it alone, because he understood now better than ever that Aziraphale could not be pushed. So, the fevered confession itself would have to be enough for now. That, and this one incredibly important hang-up now hurdled.

And, he only smiled. "Feel better?"

The angel beamed. "Loads."

* * *

Aziraphale walked several blocks to Our Lady of the Assumption and Saint Gregory, to return his storage key, but then decided to donate the hundred-pound deposit back to the Church, as one last minor act of charity. He told the new priest (as it turned out, Father Lawrence had died in 1952 - Aziraphale didn't have the best grasp of time passing) that he simply didn't need the storage anymore, and wanted to free it up for someone who did need it. He agreed to pay a handsome amount to have the five boxes of books from the storage locker delivered to the shop the following day.

Meanwhile, Crowley walked over to a local DIY store, and ordered two sets of HazMat gloves, aprons, and tongs, of the grade worn by nuclear technicians. And by demons setting a holy water trap for minions of Hell entering his flat, and bent on dragging him back down into the deepest pits. He'd had to do a minor bit of "miracling" in order not to get background-checked by the clerk.

Afterwards, they met up at a local restaurant, of Aziraphale's choosing, of course, for a meal meant to take both of their minds off what was to come.

"Señor Aziraphale… and an _amigo_," said Pedro, the owner and host of Platos Brillantes, a Tapas restaurant, five blocks away from the book shop. He smiled widely, and held his arms out for a double-handed handshake.

"Yes. Pedro, this is Crowley," Aziraphale said, obliging the handshake. "Crowley, Pedro. ¿_Tiene mi mesa usual?"_

"_Por supuesto"_ said Pedro, who led the duo to a perfect little table in the back, near a window that looked out into an unexpected little courtyard. "Will you be needing menus?"

"Better do," Aziraphale said. "Crowley's first time here."

"It's all right," Crowley said. "I don't need it. You can just tell me what to order."

"_Muy bien," _Pedro responded. "Marques de Murrieta?"

"Gran Reserva 2009?" asked Aziraphale.

"You doubt me?"

"Wonderful! We'll have that, and two glasses, please!" Aziraphale said, and Pedro hurried away. To Crowley, he said, "One of the best wines ever to come out of Spain!"

Crowley leaned back in his chair, and looked around. "This is trendier than your usual fare, Aziraphale."

"Yes, that's true, but I'm finding lately that I rather like the severe décor, much more than I used to."

It did not escape Crowley's notice that the place was dark and boxy, not unlike his own flat.

"And what is this?" he asked, indicating the greened-in area outside the window, where people sat at long picnic tables drinking beer, and eating bread-and-cheese-stuffed mushroom caps.

"Oh! There's a Biergarten on the other side of the courtyard," Aziraphale said, with some excitement. "It's called Oliver Spencer's. They have some intriguing new brews this year, and a bangers-and-mash appetizer, wrapped in miniature pastries, that is absolutely Heavenly."

He didn't even balk at using that word. Crowley smiled. Now _this _was his best friend, through and through.

"There you are. This should be proof positive that there are definitely worse things than becoming a demon," Crowley said.

"How do you mean?"

"This is a fascinating little restaurant where they know you. And tomorrow, you can come back if you like."

Aziraphale smiled. "Are you trying to tell me that it's not the end of the world?"

"I suppose I am," Crowley said, with a smirk.

* * *

They, of course, drained the Murrieta dry (three bottles of it - Pedro's entire stock), plus complimentary shots of Cuarenta y Trés, from an ancient recipe, and they ordered a fair amount of Tapas.

"This isn't like the old recipe," Aziraphale complained. "In 20 BC the flavour was richer."

"That's probably because they are allowing fewer dead rats to decompose in the barrels nowadays," Crowley said, downing his fifth shot, along with the angel, who was content to complain, but also perfectly content to consume it. "They don't make anything like they used to. Shame, that. "

After leaving Pedro's, they went for a walk around Soho, and didn't bother to sober up. They had coffee and dessert in a hole-in-the-wall Baklava joint where Aziraphale had been going ever since the area was much seedier, and the current owner's grandfather had arrived from Greece and opened the establishment. He ate the crispy pastry a bit drunkenly, but with no less than his usual indulgent delight, and repeatedly reminded himself, and Crowley, that being a demon would change nothing about the way they had spent this evening, and that was fine with him.

"Unless, of course, they pull me down under to do paperwork or some such nonsense," Aziraphale slurred, rolling his eyes like a teenaged girl.

"They won't," Crowley said, waving his hand about, as though it were a windsock. "Like I said, _fifty luck…_ no wait._ Uck lay fff…_ shit! _Fiat lux…_"

Aziraphale laughed hysterically, and the only other people in the joint, an Arabic-speaking family of four, looked at them curiously for a few moments. "What the Hell are you on about?" he asked, still laughing.

Crowley took a long sip of his coffee, then sat up straight, frowned, acted very serious, then said, _"_Okay, I've got it now. _If they fuck _with you, as I said before, they'll have to _wheel myth dee._ I mean… deal with me. Don't forget, angel, down below, that lot think we're both made of something else now."

"But won't they know that's not the case if my name turns up on the roster?"

"Maybe, but it's not like anyone is sitting there staring at the roster all the time. It takes, like, a decade to do roll-call, so you may even have a _yen keer tush_. A _ken beer bushel…_ wait, what?"

"A ten-year cushion? Well, that's not much, but I'll take it," Aziraphale said, sloppily. He raised his coffee, and toasted it in the air, then took a big drink that seemed to burn his mouth.

"Most likely, angel, they're too scared of both of us. So, even if they realise what's happened, they just won't touch you. And you can go on eating Tapas and Baklava and crêpes and _Obbo Succo…"_

"Osso Bucco?"

"Yeah, that! For as long as you like."

"I _roper height_," Aziraphale said, sticking his fork back into the last little triangle of Baklava on his plate. "Wait, no. I hope you're right."

* * *

They did sober up before going home, which was a good decision for their language skills, but a poor decision for their calming-down skills.

Aziraphale chose to turn in as soon as they were in the door, just after eleven p.m. Crowley wondered what he ought to say. "Good night, Aziraphale," seemed a safe bet, rather than "good night, angel," which might serve as a reminder that in an hour, he'd no longer be an angel. Even "See you in the morning," felt a little insensitive to say.

He settled on, "Good night. Let me know if you need something."

Aziraphale hadn't answered. He'd just nodded, and disappeared behind his bedroom door, closing it softly.

Crowley honestly believed that Hell would continue more or less to leave the two of them alone. Yes, he'd been down there twice since "Wet Sunday," but both times it had been of his own volition, and both times, they had allowed him to leave without a fight. He hadn't been in the room when the events of Wet Sunday had scared the pants off all of them, but he had imagined it quite a few times, and knew his former bosses well enough to recognise when they were in _retreat_ mode. So, his reassuring Aziraphale this evening had not been lipservice.

But he also knew Aziraphale well enough to recognise when he was actually terrified. Not that the angel was exactly a closed book; he was wont to wear just about every emotion, right there on his face. His eyes alone, at least to Crowley, could betray everything. And this evening, when they'd left the Baklava place, and decided to purge the wine from their bodies, as soon as it was done, Crowley could see that _worry_ had replaced alcohol in his companion's veins. And there was no miracle they could perform to put _worry _back in its bottle.

And if he was honest with himself, there was a hint of worry in his own veins. Not for himself, or even for the future, but over the prospect of Aziraphale spending the next hour alone in his room, waiting for an axe to fall.

He retired to his own room. Much as he had the night before, and many nights over the past month, he undressed down to a fitted black tee-shirt, and a pair of black silk boxers, lay down on his bed, and failed to sleep.

* * *

Aziraphale very slowly undressed, and pulled on a set of cream-coloured satin pyjamas. He then scrupulously folded over the shirt he'd worn today, and set it in the hamper, then did the same with the trousers and socks. He hung up his waistcoat and coat on two separate hangers, and put them in the closet for another day. Underneath them he laid his shoes, and he hung his bowtie on a hook, just inside the closet door.

And then, he went to the window and stared out for a few minutes. Eventually, he miracled himself a cup of cocoa, then sat on the edge of the bed, and continued to contemplate the city. From here, he had an excellent view of Westminster, and a good length of the Thames.

He had watched this ancient metropolis grow up – he and Crowley both. They had watched them build the Abbey, back when "Westminster" and "Londontown" were two different things. They had both been about in 1666 when most of the main city had burned to the ground, and they'd watched it rebuilt. They'd been there again in 1941 when it was bombed almost to smithereens, and again, rebuilt. It was a tough town, that had, somehow, been quite gentle on the pair of them.

And he wondered how differently he would see it in the morning. His companion had assured him that he wouldn't suddenly have the urge to do terrible things, but he also knew that Crowley was a different creature than other demons. He'd known that Crowley's "fall" from Grace wasn't the most dramatic in history, because he hadn't been the worst fallen angel in history, so what if he didn't know the whole story? When Crowley had been cast out, he hadn't done anything as drastic as thwarting an Apocalypse. Aziraphale's experience was bound to be a Hell of a lot more violent.

And yet, he just sat there, on the edge of a bed, shaking, docile, watching London mill about in the night. Shouldn't he be preparing?

He set the cocoa on the night stand, and stood up. He began to pace, as he had earlier today in the book shop… only then, he'd been seething with anger, at the Archangels, the Almighty, the unfair lot he'd been given as an angel bound to watch over Earth, with free will, but not actually permitted to enjoy anything about humanity or its inventions and quirks, or even try to _save _it.

Tonight, with less than an hour to go, the anger was gone, and he was simply terrified. He'd known that Crowley had done his best this evening to try and take his mind off what was going to happen, and he now sincerely wished that he, himself, had not suggested sobering up. He knew that Crowley kept plenty of alcohol in the flat, more than enough to dull the trepidation, but somehow that didn't seem fitting of an angel… or a demon, frankly. Weren't supernatural beings supposed to face these things with a certain resolve?

And so, he tried to steel himself. Whatever was going to happen, the worst of it would be quite soon, and if Crowley was to be believed, quite short (though, he now sort of doubted Crowley's testimony). What was it to be? Fire? Boiling sulfer? Fast food? _The Sound of Music_, until his brain bled? All of these things, he knew he could handle. He was stronger than he mostly gave himself credit for…

And he reckoned that Crowley was probably correct about Hell being too scared to mess with them too much, so he wasn't truly afraid of losing his life, or his pleasures.

But, what was he to do? What would he become? Could he keep his name? Could he continue to wear light-coloured clothes? Would he grow a "familiar," like Beelzebub and Hastur, and their flies and frogs respectively? He had nothing against animals, but the idea of having one constantly attached to him, like an appendage, didn't appeal. Then again, Crowley was his own familiar, in a manner of speaking – perhaps Aziraphale would get to be a wolf or a rabbit in disguise.

Would he have to start behaving less like an English dandy, and more like the lead singer of a rock band? And if not, how could he invoke any sort of fear, or visions of evil? But then again, why should he need to?

He walked back and forth, and wrung his hands over all of this. His breath was coming in short spurts, and he was holding back from panicked weeping…

"Oi," said a voice.

Aziraphale stopped pacing, and turned toward the sound. Crowley's head was leaning in through the door, yellow eyes blinking expectantly.

"Crowley," he sighed.

"I couldn't sleep," said the demon. "Just wondered if, erm, you'd be up for a chat, or something. Or watching a film?"

Aziraphale smiled softly and moved a little bit closer. "Thank you, Crowley. Yes, I would like some company during the… transition."

Crowley smiled a bit sheepishly, and stepped inside the bedroom. To Aziraphale's surprise, he shut the door behind him.

"You saw through that, eh?" asked Crowley, not actually very surprised.

"Yes," Aziraphale confirmed. "But I appreciate the attempt at a ruse."

"You okay?"

The angel's instinct was always to say, "Yes! Absolutely! Tip top! Tickety-boo!" or some such doddery twaddle.

But tonight, he just couldn't say those things, and even if he could, there was nowhere to hide.

"No. No, I'm not," he confessed, his voice breaking.

* * *

**I hope you got feels and laughs reading this chapter!**

**And I hope you will review. Silence the crickets, and make my day! :-D**

**Thank you for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 6 seemed to pack quite a punch for some of you... poor angel. What's next for him?**

**Well, I think you'll like this chapter a lot! The "ship" is moving full steam ahead now! *shiver***

**Dive in, and enjoy!**

* * *

SEVEN

Aziraphale walked back and forth in the space between the bed and the window, and wrung his hands over all of the unanswered questions he faced. His breath was coming in short spurts, and he was holding back from panicked weeping…

"Oi," said a voice.

The angel stopped pacing, and turned toward the sound. Crowley's head was leaning in through the door.

"Crowley," he sighed.

"I couldn't sleep," said the demon. "Just wondered if, erm, you'd be up for a chat, or something. Or watching a film?"

Aziraphale smiled softly and moved a little bit closer. "Thank you, Crowley. Yes, I would like some company during the… transition."

Crowley smiled, and stepped inside the bedroom. To Aziraphale's surprise, he shut the door behind him.

"You saw through that, eh?" asked Crowley, not actually very surprised.

"Yes," Aziraphale confirmed. "But I appreciate the attempt at a ruse."

"You okay?"

The angel's instinct was always to say, "Yes! Absolutely! Tip top! Tickety-boo!" or some such doddery twaddle.

But tonight, he just couldn't say those things, and even if he could, there was nowhere to hide.

"No. No, I'm not," he confessed, his voice breaking.

"But you will be," Crowley assured him, once again. As he said, this, he moved closer to the angel, who retreated like a cornered animal. It was not the first time, of course – Crowley was used to this reaction.

The pacing began again. Crowley could see quite clearly that the angry stalking of earlier had now been replaced with a shuffle of fret and terror.

"I've been in here, all alone, torturing myself. Oh, God," he breathed, leaning his head back to look at his own personal abandoned sky. "There's so much I don't know! There's so much that, even you, Crowley, can't tell me. Sorry to say, but it's true!"

"I know," Crowley conceded, sitting down on the bed where Aziraphale had been parked just a little while ago.

"And just knowing that I'll be all right in the end, it's not good enough," Aziraphale continued. "The _un_known is what's crushing me just now. As much as I don't fancy a flaming lake of sulfur, just knowing for sure that it's what's coming, and not something much, much worse… even _that_ would be reassuring."

"I'm sorry, angel," said Crowley. "I wish I could be of more help, but I've never heard the same _falling_ story twice."

"There will be so much to learn! So many new things to get the hang of! I won't know how to behave. I won't know how to react to my thoughts and urges."

"What?"

"Like, just now, when you asked if I was okay, my involuntary reaction was to say '_Oh, yes, old man. I'm absolutely topping today! Tip-top, couldn't be better!_' But what demon says rubbish like that? Shouldn't I be learning how to brood? I've never brooded in my life! Or is it _brod_? Damn it, I don't even know how to _talk _about it! The closest I've come is a really deep pout. With my lip out. And cocoa."

"Aziraphale…" Crowley sighed.

"No, don't _Aziraphale _me, just now, Crowley, because I'm quite, quite, serious. I don't know _anything._"

"You know plenty," Crowley protested, getting to his feet once again. "Stop pacing – you're making it worse."

"Do demons not pace? Do they not fret this much?"

"Demons fret," Crowley said. "You've seen me fret something awful. But this isn't helping."

"Crowley, I've always been the nice one. I've always been the good one. And yes, I've had my transgressions because the Almighty created me imperfectly. She created all of us imperfectly. I gave into temptation plenty of times, and I _incited_ temptation almost as many times. I've been weak. I've indulged, I've allowed myself to _feel_…"

"Yes. All of those things are okay. Normal."

"They're _not_ okay for an angel. But no matter, now. What I'm saying is, with all of that, you know, I've never actually hurt anyone. Not really. I've never been really bad. I've never ruined anyone's life, or directly caused violence. I've never done a favour for you without accompanying it with a blessing. Never!" Aziraphale said, now with tears falling, his pace growing more and more agitated. "And now? I'm to become…."

"I know, I know," Crowley said, trying to catch his companion mid-stride.

"Now I'm to be come the _opposite,_ Crowley! _The opposite of everything I've ever been!_ And you'd think after six thousand years of watching and learning, and spending time with you, I'd know what that means, but I just don't! I don't!" He actually stopped moving, stood in the middle of the floor, and cried out those words, while pounding on his thighs in frustration.

"Okay, okay," Crowley whispered, now finally able to get his hands on the angel. He actually wrapped his long arms around Aziraphale's shoulders tightly, pulled him close, and whispered in his ear, "I know… it's okay. I'm here with you. I can't fix it, but I'm here. I know it's frightening… I'm sorry I can't do more."

"Crowley," the angel groaned pitifully, as his own arms grasped at Crowley's back, and squeezed. "I don't know what to do."

"There's nothing to do," Crowley said. "Just remember you're not alone."

Aziraphale sighed, and dared to rest his forehead against Crowley's shoulder. There was a long pause, and when he spoke again, he almost had control. "I've never _really_ been alone, have I?"

"No," Crowley said, now daring to stroke the back of Aziraphale's hair. He used his entire palm, and all five fingertips. It was a wholly new sensation for both of them.

In six thousand years, this was their first hug.

It was to be a night of many firsts.

Crowley allowed his hand to slide back round to the front, to his companion's cheek and jaw. He pulled slightly away and placed his free hand on the other cheek. To say that he felt quite moved would have been an laughably understated. Just in these few slow-motion moments of staring at those soft, angelic lips, at closer quarters than ever before, he felt so moved as to press forward with his own. And his heart could have displaced entire mountains.

Those lips. Those angelic, expressive lips. He fixated on them almost against his own will, and it wasn't the first time. Crowley had watched them wrap themselves around countless delectable treats, pull back thousands of times to reveal a dazzling smile, and move deftly against each other as the angel expounded on one thing or another. Over the years, Crowley had allowed himself only a handful of times to imagine how they would feel pressed to him, in a kiss like this one, or moving down his neck, or nipping against his chest and stomach, maybe even pursed taut and pulling up and down on other parts of him…

For the most part, he'd tried hard to keep those little _imaginings _under lock and key. The fallout on him physically and emotionally was, more often than not, just too much. And, he tended to hate himself afterwards, as though he had horribly blasphemed. And so, fantasies about Aziraphale had been relegated as an exceedingly rare extravagance that he paid for with more physical exertion than was probably reasonable, followed by hot, intense tears, all of which had been known to result in weeks of sleep, shirking of duties, and semi-long-term avoidance of the angel himself. As such, he had not indulged, since well before Antichrist's birth. Even with the Apocalypse nigh, and even with the angel asleep across the hall.

But, the flush of _love_ he felt, as he realised that the angel was not resisting, was not feigning to be appalled, and was, in fact, nervously tugging at his tee-shirt and returning the kiss, _that _was quite familiar. It was something he had felt in varying degrees of intensity for, literally, Time Immemorial. He had long-since acknowledged and embraced it, all the while knowing, damn it, that _the angel could not be pushed._

Crowley was pushing a bit now, he knew, but he'd had the patience of Job, and this night was threatening to break them both… though, perhaps in different ways. It was killing him to see Aziraphale so nearly crushed, and as such, his own control was floundering. He had loved this magnificent creature for as long as anyone in existence could remember, and in a time of this much driving panic, this much sorrow and fear, shouldn't his role be to turn the trajectory of this night toward _joy_?

_Let's seek joy together, Aziraphale_, he wanted so badly to say, and it was the perfect moment for it. He could whisper it desperately into his ear…

He opted instead for the nonverbal translation, and he tilted his head to the right, pulled tighter, and pressed his tongue against Aziraphale's lips. The angel very willingly let it in. Mouths gaped wider, then smaller, trying to catch one another. Tongues undulated against each other. Aziraphale's fingertips dug into Crowley's chest, looking for purchase. And then, there was the crystalline sound that almost became the _coup de grâce _in this little battle with himself to which Crowley was clinging quite tenuously. It was the sound of a sigh – or was it a breathy moan? It was a sound that he had only ever heard Aziraphale make when he'd tasted the perfect crêpe, or the freshest sushi, or the fullest-bodied wine… and now, the most exquisite kiss.

And it made everything clench and harden throughout Crowley's already fairly tightly-coiled body, both below the waist and above.

Which he found, in spite of himself, terrifying.

If he could barely hold himself together for weeks after merely _fantasising_ about being with Aziraphale, what would the recovery time be, after actually _being _with Aziraphale?

It might be a daft question, but it was worth asking... wasn't it?

His mouth clung and didn't want to stop. His body tingled against the angel's eager, clumsy fingertips. His cock was hard. His rationality had all but shut down. Everything within him screamed _seize the moment! Seize this joy! _

But he pulled back, and it took everything he had. He went against every instinct he had as a demon, and balked from what he really, really wanted. Life with Aziraphale had always been something of an exercise in restraint, and thank Somebody he'd spent years practicing, because _this _was viciously difficult.

His hands were still on the angel's cheeks and jaws, but his eyes were now far enough away to study the lovely, beatific face. He swallowed hard, gathered himself, and asked, "All right?"

Aziraphale smiled. "I'm better than all right."

"Shall I stay with you?" Crowley asked, dropping his hands to his sides.

"Yes, please. Midnight is…" Aziraphale swallowed hard. "All too near."

"All right. Let me go turn off the telly in my room, and I'll be right back," Crowley said, practically choking on the words.

He ducked out of the bedroom, and went back into his own. He shut the door momentarily, and fell back against it with a cathartic groan.

It didn't occur to him to use any supernatural wile to force his body to stop vibrating everywhere, and his erection back into submission. Probably, mostly because his body wasn't the thing the most acutely torturing him just now – it was his heart, and his mind was a close second. No magic in Heaven or Hell could quell the love bubbling to the surface, the excitement, the overwhelming urge to run back into Aziraphale's room and gush over the kiss they had shared.

So, he took an inordinately long time to "turn off the telly" before returning to the lightly-decorated room across the hall, with his wits a bit more (though not completely) intact.

When he arrived, the clock on the night table read 11:35, and the angel was waiting for him, predictably, on the right side of the bed, with the covers pulled up to his chest. He lay on his back, staring contemplatively at the ceiling, with his hands folded over his middle.

This was how Crowley had found him a number of times in Tadfield, at the inn, while they were waiting for time to repair itself. They'd spent that fortnight sharing a bed, with relative calm, partially because they usually weren't in the bed at the same time for very long. But, mostly, it had been because they had dismissed at the start the possibility of any joy-seeking, as Aziraphale had asked Crowley, once again, to be patient, and had even explained why.

But tonight, no such dismissal had been made. Although, Aziraphale seemed content to pretend, at least with this little tableau, that there was no difference between the sharing-a-bed scenario then, and the sharing-a-bed scenario now.

Aziraphale turned his head and smiled at him rather serenely, and Crowley lifted the covers and slid into bed on the left.

Aziraphale switched off the lamp at his side by snapping his fingers, this triggered a night light to come on, and the two of them lay in a golden-tinged darkness. For about ten minutes, they were still, both afraid to move or speak or even fall asleep.

At long last, it was Aziraphale who broke the silence. "Crowley?"

"Mm?"

"I'm still scared. But having you here is helping a great deal. So, thank you."

"You're welcome, angel."

"I know you'd rather just be asleep and…"

"There's nothing I'd rather be doing."

"All the same."

Crowley turned over on his side, and propped his head on his hand over a crooked elbow. "You've got to get it out of your head that you're being a bother. Haven't we already acknowledged that you're staying here, in my flat, for a reason? A reason _not _related to having your own flat redone?"

"I suppose so."

"And you've known me for six thousand years – have you ever seen me do anything I didn't want to do, if I wasn't ordered to?"

"No. Well, except miracling _Hamlet_ into a hit. And making that shepherd come home to his wife, back in Bristol after the…"

"…yeah, after Scarlet Vera. Whoa, now, she was a firecracker."

"Indeed. And… I've seen you do other things like that."

"Those things were for you. Favours for you. I _wanted _to do them for you. Just like I _want_ to enjoy food with you, and I _want_ you to live here, and I _want_ to listen in the middle of the night when you've had a prophetic nightmare, and I _want_ to be here. In your bed."

Aziraphale shifted his eyes to the left, to meet those of the demon. "To be with me while I… fall."

"Yes, that too."

"Having to wear oven mitts whilst helping me remove holy texts from my book shop…"

"Wanted to do that. And I also wanted to order you new sets of HazMat gear, and watch you eat Baklava, and…"

They both fell silent after that.

Aziraphale turned his head to the right, and checked the time. "Ten minutes to go."

"Stop doing that," Crowley said. "It won't help. Just live in the moment."

"I'm a creature of the past. My future is about to change. How can I just be in the moment?"

"Well… like this," Crowley said. And even though he knew it was dangerous for his personal sanity, because of the unstable precipice he'd been standing on ever since ripping himself away from that kiss, he placed his head on the pillow, then reached out for Aziraphale's right hand, and he tugged.

Aziraphale was surprised, but he took the hint, and rolled to the left. Crowley guided that right arm around his own waist, and wrapped his left around Aziraphale's shoulders. And for about a minute, they just held each other. Body-to-body, soul to soul, breath to breath. Both had to take a few moments to acclimate to the electricity this caused, and calm the veritable lightning storm in their minds and bodies.

"Would you like to hear about more things I did, because I wanted to?" Crowley asked, after a few beats.

"Yes, tell me."

* * *

**Well. Now, I know you're having thoughts and feelings just now! Let me know what they are!**

**Come on, review! I know you want to! ;-) Don't let the crickets back in!**

**You're a wonderful audience, and thanks so much for reading. *hugs***


	8. Chapter 8

**Wellllll… when last we saw our ineffable pair, they were in bed, holding tight, waiting for midnight. They had shared a comforting but lustful kiss, but backed off from it - at the end of the chapter, it was all about closeness. Crowley, as we all know, wants desperately just to _be there,_ to be part of Aziraphale's life, so he's doing his best to help his companion across this incredible transition. **

**One reviewer said they hated me just a little for stopping there. I LOLed at that! Well, hate me no more, my friend, because I did not stop there... I just put a chapter break there. And here's the rest!**

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**So that means, friends, here we go! This is NSFW. If you think the angelic/demonic, immortal, ineffable partnership should transcend the flesh, then maybe skip this chapter :-D**

**Enjoy!**

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EIGHT

In a barely-lit bedroom in London, two supernatural beings lay entwined, beneath the covers, both terrified, and trying to take their minds off the thing currently at the forefront.

The taller of the two had been talking for the past ten minutes or so, and the other had been listening. He was resting his head against the former's arm and chest, and using these moments of tranquility to process, gather information (much of which he already knew) and brace himself for a change.

And he realised that his companion had been right: this scenario was allowing him to be much more in-the-moment. Somehow, he was able to let go of the ticking clock, and convince himself that all that mattered was _right now_.

_All I can hear is Crowley's voice,_ he thought. _All I can see is a pervasive, golden light, interrupting the dark. I feel warmth and love, and nothing else._

_Well, not nothing… I also feel a longing. It's not unpleasant, and not totally unfamiliar, but an _angel _would have had no idea what to do with a feeling like this one._

"It's 12:02," said Crowley, after a slight lull.

Well, there it was. It was past midnight.

And Aziraphale felt different.

"You were wrong, Crowley," said Aziraphale, his voice low, secretive, serious.

"Wrong how?"

"I do feel changed."

"Do you?"

Aziraphale pulled back and looked into Crowley's yellow eyes. "I feel relieved. I feel lighter, like guilt doesn't exist anymore."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yes. If Heaven is watching, I don't give a damn."

"That's definitely a changed tune."

"I can let go any clinging austerity, any ceremonious goodness – there's no reason for it. I don't need to learn anymore, about good or evil or humanity or anything else. I can just live."

Crowley smiled slightly. "Does that mean you _are_ having the sudden urge to do wicked things?"

"Yes, but it's not sudden. It's the same wicked thing I've wanted to do all of my life, but couldn't because I couldn't set it free. Not even _you_ could set it free, Crowley, and you're the one who stirs it."

This answer surprised Crowley. He hadn't asked the question about wicked urges, hoping for any sort of lascivious response. He asked, because Aziraphale had previously wondered aloud if sudden mischievous urges would be a by-product of becoming a demon.

"Wow," he murmured. "I was joking."

"I'm not," Aziraphale murmured back.

"You're saying you don't need to learn about humanity…" Crowley said.

"That's right. Excuses are gone."

"Just seeking joy..."

"As solace. As refuge."

"And..."

"Well, yes, and joy for the sake of itself. Because we want it and deserve it."

"Are you sure, Aziraphale?" Crowley asked, his voice barely coming out as a choked whisper. "I mean, are you really, really certain?"

Aziraphale gulped, then nodded, wide-eyed. He still had white hair, he was still clad in light-coloured pyjamas, he still had a beatific, angelic face… he still looked like the same skittish Aziraphale.

But his words were entirely new.

Aziraphale had definitely spent the last six thousand years evolving. As had Crowley. They'd become less like their Heavenly/Hellish colleagues, and more and more like each other… especially over the past thousand years. And that evolution had gone even more quickly over the previous month, since thwarting the Apocalypse – especially for Aziraphale. The conversation they'd had in Tadfield upon arriving at the inn was proof positive. Though the angel had said that he wasn't ready to _seek joy _yet, just the fact that it was being discussed as a possibility showed an enormous willingness to change. _Seeking joy_ was a topic of discussion that would have been heretofore taboo, a prospect Aziraphale would have claimed never, ever, _ever _entered his mind, and how could anyone suggest otherwise? He was an angel after all!

And it had given Crowley hope. And that had been excellent.

But this? What Aziraphale had just said? This was a completely different kettle of fish. It was turning everything he had ever been on its very ear. Which wasn't surprising, given the circumstances.

And as much as Crowley wanted to honour who Aziraphale was, and had always been, he also had waited millennia for this moment, had been teetering on the edge of self-control for the past twenty minutes. His trepidation about the emotional depth of this endeavour was gone. Fantasies of Aziraphale gutted him, but this was no fantasy, and it bloody well _should _be deep!

And he was patient, but not made of stone.

So, he lurched forward, and pressed his lips against Aziraphale's, and pushed forward with his body as well, until Aziraphale was on his back, and he was on top. He deepened the kiss, once again, and Aziraphale let him guide.

And they were off. Kisses were light. Kisses were hard. They were closed-mouthed. They were probing, and juicy and passionate, with tongues and hands everywhere. There was silence. There were groans. There was every sensation that two sets of lips could produce with one another.

Eventually, Crowley moved back over to the side, and began kissing, nipping behind the other's ear. At the same time, his fingers found the top button of Aziraphale's pyjama top, just about mid-sternum, and he worked it open. He flicked the earlobe with his tongue, inciting a gorgeous little "oh!" of surprise from his companion, while he worked open the second button. Then he sucked at the perfect, smooth, salty neck, and moved his hand to the third, then fourth, then fifth button, listening to gasps he'd always longed to hear, savouring flesh he had always wanted to sample.

When the last button was undone, Crowley pried the garment open with one hand, and explored the chest and stomach beneath, the contours of which were a bit fuller than his own, softer than his own, and lightly peppered with silky, curly hair. Crowley couldn't help but bite Aziraphale's shoulder as his hand roved all over, and Aziraphale gave a deep, almost distressed, groan of, "Oh, God."

Crowley pulled back. "All right?"

"Yes, sorry… forgot myself."

"No, I mean… are you okay?"

"I'm… overwhelmed."

"I'll stop if you want," Crowley offered, though he was cringing inside, silently begging that this _not_ be halted.

"No, no… it's just…" Aziraphale's breathing was laboured as he spoke, and his voice was familiarly high and… not worried, just flooded with emotion. "I've never felt anything like this… it's just pure _sensation._ It's so, so powerful, I… I wasn't prepared for it to be this powerful."

"That's part of the mission, angel," Crowley said, lightly kissing the newly-exposed chest.

"It's so intense… it's… it's like… like I want to burst," Aziraphale breathed as Crowley's hungry, experienced mouth roved over him.

"That is _also_ part of the mission," Crowley growled.

"Oh, my!" Aziraphale responded, still breathy, still deep, still inundated with unadulterated _feeling_. Crowley's mouth was now nibbling and licking all over his neck, shoulders, collarbone…

With more breath than voice, Crowley said, "I just want to taste you everywhere..."

Aziraphale's head swam, and he tilted his head back and breathed, "Oh, I want that too. Crowley, I'm in love with you." These words came forth choked, halfway between a passionate moan, a sob, and a confession that just came spilling out.

"I know," Crowley whispered, never stopping what he was doing. "I'm in love with you, too."

"Of course you know," Aziraphale moaned, grasping Crowley's arm, drowning in emotion, still leaning his head back to give the demonic tongue better access. "I imagine it's been written all over my face for centuries. Millennia, maybe. And just when I thought I couldn't feel more strongly..."

"Shhh," Crowley lulled, placing himself back on top, and smashing his mouth against his companion's once again. He plunged his tongue in ravenously, and found it received with the most delicious, voracious sucking and pulling…

And in this position, with legs against legs now, they could each feel that the other was as hard as iron below the waist.

Crowley sat up, straddling Aziraphale's legs, and pulled his own shirt over his head and tossed it aside. He then snapped his fingers, and suddenly, Aziraphale's off-white pyjama bottoms were draped over a chair on the other side of the room, along with his own black silk shorts.

Both were now totally bare, exposed to one another.

Aziraphale looked down at himself. "Oh!" he said, with surprise.

"What? Too fast?"

"No… it's just…"

"What?"

"I didn't realise that it…"

"What?"

"Well, I know it's daft, but I never realised it would stand up."

Crowley smiled. "It's never done that before?"

"I've never let it. Or, if it did, then I would close my eyes until it went away." He shifted his eyes, and roved over Crowley, who was still kneeling over him. "Oh… yours too, then."

Again, Crowley smiled. "Yes, that's how this works. Did you not understand that?"

"I did," Aziraphale answered, swallowing hard. "Theoretically, only, though."

"Aziraphale, say the word, and I'll slow down. You told me I go too fast for you… that's the _last_ thing I…"

"No, no… please don't slow down. Please," Aziraphale begged. "I feel like an exposed nerve just now, but I don't want it to end. I've never felt so alive! It's just…"

"What?"

"Well," Aziraphale said, nervously, staring at Crowley's cock, jutting forward, solid and ready. "I'm looking at you now, and I'm wondering… are you going to want to… erm, be… you know, behind me?"

"No, angel," Crowley said softly. "Not tonight."

And he lowered himself back down on the left side of Aziraphale.

"Oh, I'm relieved," Aziraphale confessed. "I think, anyway."

Crowley whispered in his ear, kissing the earlobe again. "That's pretty advanced flying. We're just getting off the ground tonight. Relax, love."

And with those words, Crowley's hand wrapped around his companion's very well-primed member, and began to stroke slowly. Aziraphale gasped hard, and his eyes seemed to roll back in his head. He hissed out a few unintelligible phrases. At the end, he distinctly heard the slurred words, _so bloody good_ come tumbling out.

"Mm-hm," Crowley lulled, kissing the other man's shoulder. "Just let it roll over you."

"Oh, Crowley… oh, it's too much…" Aziraphale said, eyes shut tight, nearly weeping with the intensity.

"Shall I stop?"

"Don't you dare!"

"Good, good, angel," Crowley sang in his ear. "I love, _love_ how shocking all of this is to your system. I love how you're practically drowning in sensation."

"I am!"

"But you want it?"

"It's… it's… oh, magnificent," Aziraphale croaked, eyes still shut tight.

Crowley now draped his leg over Aziraphale's, and pressed his own pelvis against Aziraphale's hip, and began to move, moaning into his ear.

"I'm loving watching and hearing you experience everything for the first time – it makes me happy and hard, all at once, and I can't wait to see what your face will do as you get closer and closer," he said, teasingly. He licked Aziraphale's neck with his snake-like tongue.

Momentarily he stopped, sucked his fingers, then set back to work, stroking with his moistened, slick fingertips. Aziraphale gave a crackling, scorching groan. When he settled in again, Crowley pumped faster, and ground his own cock onto his partner's hip, rutting, now panting a bit, looking for relief.

Aziraphale's breathing quickened as well.

"If you've never seen your own cock standing up hard that way," Crowley whispered. "Then that means, you've never had an orgasm before."

"No… no, never."

"Never even on your own, eh?"

"No."

"Not even thinking about me?"

"No… I've thought… and then stopped. But I…"

"I've had them, thinking about you."

"Oh, Crowley."

"But thinking of you, and being without you… the climax is too hard. I just drown."

"Crowley, that's… that's…"

"You've always run away from those thoughts?"

"Yes," Aziraphale panted, as Crowley's palm jerked him forward, and his own cock ground over and over into Aziraphale's hip. "Thoughts appear… I can't stop them. But I run… and I run…"

"I run away from them too, for different reasons."

"I'd never guess…"

"Well, if you've never had an orgasm before, you're about ten seconds from having one now. We both are, do you know that?" Crowley asked him, rather forcefully.

"Yes!"

"And there's nowhere to run now, do you know that too?"

"Yes!"

"Nowhere, Aziraphale. Because we're free, and we're in love, and all over each other now. We don't need to hide anymore, and you _want this, don't you? "_

"Yes!"

"So have it!" Crowley ordered him, at a low, demonic growl, rubbing himself to the breaking point against Aziraphale's body.

"Yes…. Yes…."

And with another crackling grunt, this amazing creature who had been holding himself in check for six thousand years, exploded in orgasm, white threads spewing high in the air, landing on his chest in drops, on Crowley's hand, on the sheets nearby.

And the sight was too much for the seasoned demon, and he let everything go, as well. With a low groan of "oh, angel," he spilled his own restrained come, all over Aziraphale's hip and thigh.

He'd had probably _millions _of orgasms in his long, long existence. Both on his own, and with partners. With women, with men, with groups of both… it was part of his job. Mostly official, all hedonistic.

But this… this was the one he'd been waiting for, since The Beginning of time. The indulging of love. The joy sought and found. The ultimate creature comfort.

He panted against Aziraphale's shoulder, and listened to his companion's stunned, heavy breathing, then opened his eyes and feasted them on the wonderful supernatural being lying next to and underneath him. He saw six thousand years of excruciating, exquisite patience, manifest and strewn all over Aziraphale's buzzing, rising and falling body. It was in the form of shiny, careless, slippery, white pools of liquid, and it was the most pure love he had ever actually seen.

* * *

After lying still and silent for a long few minutes, Crowley finally got up, padded to the attached bathroom, and retrieved a towel.

"Shall I?" he asked.

Aziraphale looked at him, and sat up and reached for the towel. He took it, and wiped himself clean.

"I suppose either one of us could have just snapped our fingers and cleaned it up," Crowley said.

"Mm," Aziraphale answered, tossing the towel to the floor, and lying back down.

Crowley lay down beside him again, once more kissing his shoulder. "Can you speak?"

"I wouldn't know what to say."

"Because your brain is still addled and you don't have words? Or because you have something to say that's actually too difficult to contemplate?"

Aziraphale actually chuckled. "The first one."

"Oh, good," Crowley said, with a sigh, turning over onto his back. "That's how it's supposed to be."

"I feel as though everything I've ever known has changed in the space of one hour."

"It has."

"Suddenly, I'm not what I was, and now I know… this. I know what makes humans seek this experience, sometimes at the expense of everything else."

"Yep. And why my job was often so bloody easy."

"And mine so hard."

"And we're just getting started, angel. You've not had anywhere near the full spectrum of what you can feel."

"How many times can you do this in one night?"

"What, me? Or anyone?"

"In general terms, I mean."

"Depends. For humans, the younger the man, the more virile. I've been with twenty-year-olds who are seemingly limitless. I've also been with men of sixty, who've got one good go in them, before they have to recover for twenty-four hours. But that's an oversimplification. And then, women are a different creature altogether."

"Wow."

"For us, I'm going to say, we could go three or four rounds without even trying that hard – more if we gave it a bit of effort, and maybe some magic."

"Well, I'm famished," Aziraphale said. "Let's go find a midnight snack, and maybe…"

"Give it another go?"

"Yes. If you want."

"Okay."

"Well, do you want?"

"For the record, angel, I will always want."

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**So, again, I know you are having thoughts and feelings! I'm dying to know what they are! Please don't be silent on this! :-D**

**On a different note, though, I've written a fair few smutty scenes in my travels through ffn, but this is the first one I've written for two men (or at least, two men-shaped creatures, as the book points out). I found the process difficult because using pronouns makes things very ambiguous, when two characters of the same gender have body parts entwining, and needing description. But constantly using their names feels repetitive and cumbersome. Using the words "angel" and "demon" don't work well in this instance because of other things going on in the story, so let me know what you think about that bit as well, if you are so inclined.**

**Thanks, as always, for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hi all. Sorry for the longish absence. I was traveling, and somewhat unable to post. I mean, I could have, and I wanted to, but circumstances, etc. etc. Good to be back!**

**So, the first thing you need to know about this chapter is: it's been through four drafts. FOUR. Great swathes of time have been spent writing it, and discarding hours' worth of work****,**** and retooling what I started with. It was a rough one to get right. Still not there.**

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**Chapter 9 may be controversial, but here's the thing:**

**I've read a few Crowley/Aziraphale ship-fics in which the two of them (ahem) consummate their relationship... and it's the "first time" for both of them. This strikes me as odd. It's totally conceivable to me that Aziraphale has been sweet and chaste since the Beginning of Time (angels are sexless unless they make an effort, according to the book), but I do not buy at all the notion that Crowley has been as well. **

**_Temptation_ is literally his job! It's who and what he is! One might say that he's a living embodiment of temptation (of course, the actor playing him might have something to do with that). Are we really going to believe that it's all been about talking farmers into stealing sheep, or nuns into dipping into the sacramental wine? Come on. He drinks, he sleeps, he's flashy, audacious, drives a nice car, and has the trendy flat... hedonism is going to be at his demonic core. Yes, he's in love with Aziraphale, but he's had a job to do, and six thousand years is a long bloody time. And Aziraphale hasn't been making an effort... not until relatively recently.**

**There. I just felt the need to expound on that.**

**This is an idea that I'd really like to explore more, but for now, I thought I would just tell one quick story of Crowley's exploits, how it contrasts with the present situation, and tie it into an incident we all saw onscreen. **

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**So, it's the morning after for our ineffable pair... _the morning after!_ But Crowley has a thing or two going through his head...**

**Hope you get feels! Enjoy**

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NINE

Crowley had long, long, _long_ ago realised that human beings were far more imaginative and better-versed in their own mortal angst than demons. And so, in general, this meant that they could more effectively fuck up each other's lives than any supernatural being would bother to dream. And malevolence in general terms, Crowley was all for, of course. People being arseholes to each other _just because_ was fantastically entertaining, and saved him a lot of work. Acts of revenge, quests for power, drunken insanity… these incidences were also exceedingly amusing, and Crowley really enjoyed stoking those fires for a laugh.

But people being arseholes to each other for reasons like, gender, race, and religion, this he had always found bewildering, and quite frankly, _cheating._ It was a lazy and thick-witted sort of evil. These were weak, fear-based actions with no finesse and no foresight, masquerading as principle and righteousness. Which was partly why he'd watched much of the Second World War unfold with jaw agape. The Holocaust was high on the list of the worst atrocities he had seen on _any _plane of existence. The part of him that Aziraphale called "nice" notwithstanding, even as a demon, he could not quite believe the massive level of mindless violence, and the untold amount and intensity of human suffering.

Needless to say, Crowley had quite a bit of contempt for power-without-principle Nazis by the time March of 1941 rolled around. With the Blitz into its sixth month, he had been knocking about wartime London for a couple of years, trying not to get discorporated, doing a temptation here or there, poking at Nazis and attempting to profit from their incompetence. Indeed, he quite entertained himself by annoying them, and basically trying to make their lives harder.

One evening, drinking in a literal underground bar and attempting to listen to the radio, the demonic voice of his old pal Ligur had cut into the very scratchy Glenn Miller orchestra. Ligur's purpose was to instruct Crowley to "bring down" a high-ranking official and "influence the course of the war."

Well, it didn't take a genius to realise that Hell would want the course of the war to tip in the Nazis' favour. But obviously, Crowley didn't fancy aiding a Nazi win, any more than he fancied facilitating the Apocalypse (in fact, the two outcomes had a great deal in common).

So, he'd taken advantage of the ambiguity, and decided to target a Nazi (rather than a Brit) called Stefan Harmony for a good Bringing Down. Harmony was a history professor from Berlin, who had been enlisted as a kind of "gofer spy" to the Führer. He'd been put in charge of locating certain artefacts that Hitler was keen to acquire, and Crowley had heard he was scheming to get his hands on some of the relics in Westminster Abbey. Crowley had watched them build that Abbey, had sabotaged construction in minor ways at different stages, had secretly had bits of it de-consecrated so that he could roam about inside… he liked that old Abbey, and considered it his own. Or, at least, a part of his own demonic work, of which he was proud. And, much as he hated to admit it, desecrating the Abbey offended him as a Londoner, such as he was. So, he didn't want _anyone_ messing about with it. Harmony had to go, one way or another, and it happened to suit his orders.

Crowley spent some time observing Harmony. He could tell three things straight away about the man: he was intelligent, well-connected, and homosexual. This meant that Crowley had to be careful; someone as savvy and resourceful as this might not be so easy to disgrace. With an inward sigh, Crowley reckoned he might have to go the sex-route, in order to bring this man to ruin. He really didn't relish a kiss-and-cuddle with a Nazi, but the ends justify the means, do they not?

But Crowley discovered, to his surprise, that Harmony was as close to an open homosexual as there could be in 1941. He had come to terms with it himself, and it wasn't a secret amongst his inner circle. Certainly, his colleague Glozier knew about it, and even some of the right-hand men at the side of the Führer realised it. But, he'd been so instrumental in acquiring what the Party wanted, and probably had dirt on other officials too, so his goings-on went ignored.

So, with relief, Crowley realised that shagging Harmony himself probably wouldn't do much good because no-one would care. Political corruption was not an option either… the man was a Nazi, surrounded by other Nazis. Who would notice?

This would be more complicated than he'd anticipated – he'd have to get slightly more creative. And yes, he'd probably have to rain death upon Stefan Harmony, since the standard options were off the table. But it was somewhat distasteful just to _kill_ the man. Ligur and Hastur often talked of _craftsmanship_… well, _this _would be craftsmanship.

It would be "taking down" a high-ranking official, and "influencing" the war's direction, even it was in just a small way, and not in the direction his bosses wanted. Still, two birds.

So, Crowley set about perpetrating an unnecessarily convoluted campaign to frame Harmony for something stupid that would get him killed. It involved befriending an insecure, not-so-bright runt of a Nazi officer with a hair-trigger temper and getting him promoted to a position that would allow him to divert bombers from a relay point. Then, it involved Crowley "befriending" the officer's wife in the Rhineland, and being seen by the neighbours whilst sneaking out through her bedroom window in the middle of the night. Finally, it involved implying that Harmony had been the culprit, getting the runty officer angry enough to want him dead, and finding out where Harmony would be on a given night, and relaying the information back to the bomb-manipulating officer. Easy-peasy.

He was able to discover through phone calls with a Nazi double-agent named Greta Kleinschmidt that The Mark, and his associate, Mr. Glozier, were planning a late-night rendezvous in a church in Soho, with the dealer of some artefacts they were after. He assumed the dealer would be a Nazi as well, and therefore probably deserved what was coming to him.

Over twenty-four hours, he tracked Harmony and Glozier's movements, to make sure that the former was still planning to be in that church at the appointed time. Fräulein Kleinschmidt was instrumental in that regard, especially when she let slip that Harmony was after a collection of books.

Crowley's stomach did a sloppy somersault. "Books? What sort of books?"

"Books of Prophecy, mostly, why?"

"Aw, seriously? Of all the…" he'd sputtered. "Where are these books coming from?"

"I told you – a dealer. He knows they're planning to kill him, but...

"A dealer of old, rare books. In Soho."

"Erm… yes. And he's a bit thick - he thinks I'm on his side."

"Shit!"

"Is there a problem?"

"Yes! Only, this time, no guillotine."

"Excuse me?"

* * *

Much to his own surprise and chagrin, Crowley found himself _in a church_ the following night, intervening between a rare book dealer and three Nazi arseholes in Soho. It burned like Hell (so to speak), and extended exposure to the consecrated ground could have been fatal to him.

But danger be damned - what was he supposed to do? Leave his best friend to suffer to be burned and torn apart by a bomb, and ultimately discorporated, whereupon he'd definitely be reprimanded and possibly not allowed to return to Earth?

So, Crowley did what he came to do – he warned Aziraphale that a bomb was on its way, and suggested a miraculous survival for the two of them. But, in the last seconds, just before the shell made impact, Crowley realised with horror that the prophecy books were not in Aziraphale's hands, but rather in Harmony's which meant they would not survive the blast. He willed the books saved…

And thus marked a turning point somehow, in the life of a demon. And of an angel, if he wasn't mistaken.

He didn't know precisely what went on in Aziraphale's mind and heart at any given moment, but he was fairly certain that the angel had loved him even before that night. Probably for centuries, or longer, as was the case with Crowley. But he was not at all sure that the angel had ever allowed himself to feel it, to acknowledge it within himself.

But in the moment when he handed the satchel of saved books over to the angel, Crowley had seen a realisation dawning in Aziraphale's eyes, and it was miraculous, as well as a bit painful, to see.

And with that dawning, Crowley felt a familiar swell of affection.

And this came with a flashback to how they'd got here. Mostly to tangling a set of threadbare linen sheets late into the night, with the wife of a hot-headed Nazi officer. It hadn't been strictly necessary nor had it been one of the more enjoyable work-related rolls-in-the-hay of his career. Actually, as time had gone on, temptation shags had lost more and more of whatever thrill they held, but he'd continued to do them as a way of avoiding having to think of something else. They'd become a lazy crutch.

And indeed, sex with Frau Reimer of the Rhineland had been part of an elaborate, diverting, but _not particularly clever_ plan. It also hadn't been pleasant. She was plump, which he really didn't mind, but had he been human, in her fervour she might've suffocated him with her breasts. She had a voice that grated on his nerves as it was, and when she was approaching orgasm, she would begin to recite the names of all of the Habsburg monarchs starting from the 11th century, which he found incredibly creepy (and not the good kind of creepy). And they'd done a chunk of their deed whilst a child cried down the hall, and she ignored it. (Well, she didn't ignore it forever, just for the twenty minutes it took them to finish that round). Crowley _tried_ to ignore it, but couldn't… his soft-spot for children aside, the sound of crying was not conducive to good performance. Once she was unconscious, he couldn't wait to get the Hell out of there, but he'd had to wait for his moment. Waiting for one's moment was crucial, in matters of creating a scandal through lovemaking. Well, not lovemaking, but whatever it's called when it isn't love.

_Whatever it's called when it isn't love._

_When it isn't love._

It's called fucking. It's called, by some, sin.

It _could_ be called betrayal.

Because he _had _love. And that, too, had led them here. _This _was love.

And suddenly he hated himself.

Love was not part of his job, but it _was _part of who he was at his core, demon or no. It was the only pure thing he possessed, and he should not degrade it by _pretending_ at it with people who mean nothing to him. He'd been making an effort, for centuries, at showing actual love for his friend in subtle ways, and he should not debase those acts, debase himself nor Aziraphale with these stupid, stupid games. And, he should not betray a bond, even if unspoken.

And that was the last time he'd used sex as a tool. After that, he'd had to get more creative, and even more persuasive, but he refused to go back to the way things had been.

It was another seventy-eight years before he revisited the pleasures of the flesh with anyone else at all…

* * *

So, obviously, Crowley had never had a morning like this.

He'd never had a night like that either.

Crowley had _pretended _to have nights like that, many, many times – Frau Reimer in 1941 was only the last in a millennia-long string of both reluctant, and sometimes enthusiastic, trysts with those participating unwittingly in someone's doom and/or gloom. Sometimes, their own.

And he had _pretended_ to have the lovely mornings that followed, so he knew the right things to say and do.

But it had only ever been a ruse, to buy time, or to gain trust, or to distract. It had only ever been a _device, _until he could get away, and perpetrate whatever he was going to perpetrate. And so, _the right things to say and do _to kick off the perfect morning-after, they all seemed empty. The pillow talk with streaks of sunshine splashed across the mangled bedclothes, the cups of coffee delivered with a kiss… it had all been done.

Crowley was at a loss. This morning deserved something more, something _different._

Unsure of what exactly that was, he got up just as the sun was rising over London, tiptoed out of the pale-brown, Japanese-style bedroom, and left his best friend slumbering.

He needed to think of something good, but not cliché, fitting of the occasion.

And sensitive, just in case there was anxiety over Aziraphale's new status. Which there undoubtedly would be.

And flexible, just in case Aziraphale wasn't quite sure where he stood, and/or how he felt.

And not overwhelming, just in case Aziraphale happened to revert to form, and tried to pretend that none of it ever happened.

And honouring of their long, long, time together, and the things they'd shared, not just the previous night, but over the past six thousand years.

And he had approximately _no_ time in which to come up with it.

So he quickly climbed into a black silk v-neck, and a pair of black jeans, smoothed out his hair, then made coffee, and leaned against the counter, drinking it, thinking hard.

What to do for Aziraphale this morning, of all mornings…

Something with books? Or perhaps with good champagne – peach Mimosas? Something with the two of them sitting across from one another, and sumptuous foods? Should it be the Ritz? A surprise morning excursion to their favourite luxury hangout? Or was that too public? He could perform a minor miracle and have something from the Ritz delivered in time, and they could have it out on the veranda… he'd have to miracle a veranda, too.

Or should it just be crêpes? Tried and true, and one of Aziraphale's favourite things on the planet? Should they continue with their crêpe experiment, or should he perhaps actually surprise his companion with a train ticket to Paris, and tough out listening to him attempt his terrible French? Should it be a leisurely drive in the Bentley? It was something he'd never done as a morning-after-thought… perhaps that was it. Where would they go? Oxfordshire was out of the question. How about Brighton? Nah, too on-the-nose…

"Good morning, Crowley," Aziraphale said, from the kitchen doorway. "What the devil are you doing just standing there staring at the wall?"

Crowley was so surprised, he nearly spilled his coffee.

"Erm… I… oh, I was just… erm, well…" he sputtered. Then he gathered his faculties, and sighed, "Well, can't say this isn't _different_."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Coffee?"

"All right," Aziraphale said, smiling. "Thank you." He crossed to the kitchen table, and sat down.

As he did so, Crowley couldn't help but look him over. "What are you wearing?"

Aziraphale smoothed out the lapels of his grey cashmere robe. "You don't like it?"

"I didn't say that," Crowley assured him, now crossing the room himself, with two mugs. "In fact… well, I like it quite a lot. But it's not _your_ usual fare. It's a bit dark for you."

"Well, it's just something I've had, you know," Aziraphale said, waving off the sentiment, in a _this old thing_ sort of way. "Never worn it before. Purchased it, somewhat on impulse, back… oh, during the Second World War, I should think. Not sure why I bought it, but suddenly this morning, it felt an _à propos _thing to put on."

Crowley sat down at the seat beside him, and smiled knowingly.

Aziraphale caught his eye, and smiled back, rather shyly. "All right, fair dues. I know exactly why I bought it."

Crowley thought of his subconscious preparation of the Aziraphale Bedroom in his flat, and continued to smile.

"I suppose I knew someday I'd need it because…" Aziraphale said, then he stopped, his face went flat, and he sighed. "Well, I didn't suppose that someday I'd need it because I'd become a demon."

Crowley reached across the table and took his hand, and Aziraphale squeezed.

"How do you feel this morning, angel?" The question was whispered, cautious.

"Changed."

"Changed?"

"Yes. Metamorphosed. Like I've come out on the other end of last night, so to speak, with new wings. And I have, quite literally. Do you suppose if I unfurled them now, they'd be black?"

"I suppose so."

"Well," Aziraphale said, clearing his throat. "Not just now. One thing at a time."

"I should tell you, angel, you still look the same, this exquisite robe excluded. And you sound the same. Your smile is the same. As is your frown."

Aziraphale nodded. "You told me there was no material difference between feeling like an angel, and feeling like a demon. Midnight came and went, and now I haven't got any choice but to believe you must be right."

"Good."

"So, I think that the reasons for my feeling _changed _are not to do with Heaven and Hell, Crowley," Aziraphale told him. "They must be more to do with… well, this robe."

"The robe?" Crowley asked this, almost without moving his mouth. His hand crawled up his companion's arm just a bit, so he could stroke the fabric.

Aziraphale stared down at the table, grasped Crowley's forearm and stroked the silk, as Crowley stroked his cashmere. "Yes. A moment ago, I admitted that I knew exactly why I'd bought it. You know it too. It's dark and beautiful, comforting, totally unlike me, and it makes my body hum."

"I see," Crowley whispered, feeling his companion's pulse quicken.

"That's a fairly intense description of just a robe, isn't it?" Aziraphale asked, staring at their hands.

"I should say so."

"In a time when I couldn't…" Aziraphale began, then swallowed hard. "I couldn't _have _you, I suppose… well. You understand."

"I do."

"I used to wear it sometimes after seeing you. That night when I gave you the holy water, for example."

"Really?" Crowley breathed.

Aziraphale spoke so secretly now, Crowley practically had to hold his breath to hear. "Yes. But I could never wear it for very long because… _things_ would happen to my body that I just couldn't abide, and I'd have to run away from it all."

"But we stopped running."

"We did. And when I woke this morning, and saw it hanging in the closet, I knew I needed it… on me. All over me."

"Oh, my," Crowley murmured.

There was a long pause, while they stroked each other's wrists and wondered if they would each find the courage to say what they were thinking.

"Everything is buzzing," Aziraphale confessed first, eyes shut tight. "All of my skin is in prickles, and I've never felt this way before. It's totally new to me, this sensation, and yes, I feel _changed_. It's a revelation. And I, for one, will never be the same again."

"I won't either.

Now, Aziraphale looked squarely, fiercely into his demonic companion's yellow eyes, and continued. "And since you asked me how I feel, I'll tell you exactly. Right now, everything is you, Crowley – even my own body. This morning, all we can think of – my body and I – is desire, and its functions of desire belong only to you."

"Oh, angel…" Crowley began.

"I can't believe I'm saying any of this," Aziraphale croaked.

"Please don't stop."

His voice was high, and threatening to break. "How do I feel? I feel you. Your scent is on me. The feel of you is on me. All over me. Pressing down on me, wrapped around me, your arms, your mouth, your breath, … even your voice, growling in my ear, it's still there, as though you might have left it behind. You're under my skin, and against my skin… maybe you _are _my skin. And everything I can feel right now is you. And I never want that to go away."

These words were stirring in all the right ways, and Crowley couldn't help himself. He reached up quickly, with the cashmere-stroking hand, cupped his eloquent companion's jaw, and pulled his head forward desperately. Their lips met hard, and the groans began straight away.

And just like that, this morning-after was a success. Crowley was immensely, ferociously grateful for everything Aziraphale had just said. The love, the candor, the willingness to be open, vulnerable, sensual, evocative, and deliciously discreet.

Soon, their tongues were clashing, and Crowley was just about to reach out, and find out whether there were any lingering angelic undergarments complementing the lovely grey cashmere robe…

When there was an unpleasant scratching sound coming from somewhere in the flat.

Aziraphale broke the kiss. "What the Hell is that?"

"Hello? Crowley? Anyone there?" a familiar voice said.

"Shit," Crowley spat. "It's the TV."

"What?"

"You know… TV, radio, it's how Hell gets in touch these days. It's why I don't have any broadcasting-type electronics in the kitchen."

"Oh," Aziraphale said, with a big, noticeable gulp. "I see."

"I'm sorry, angel."

* * *

**Whew. Thoughts? Don't be a lurker - leave a review if you're reading! Thanks for doing so. :-)**


	10. Chapter 10

**This chapter is a bit shorter than the last few, but it will answer a few questions, and kick us into the next phase of the story.**

**If you'll recall, at the end of the previous chapter, our favourite pair were summing up their experience and perhaps getting ready to repeat it, when there was an interruption... enjoy!**

* * *

TEN

It was a heavy, heady, spectacular moment – this _morning-after_ was a success. Aziraphale had been more honest than perhaps he had ever been in his whole long, long life. Now tongues were clashing, and the air in the kitchen was filled with groans and mounting heat.

"Right now, everything is you, Crowley – even my own body," Aziraphale had said. "…its functions of desire belong only to you… The feel of you is on me. All over me. Pressing down on me, wrapped around me, your arms, your mouth, your breath… You're under my skin, and against my skin… maybe you _are _my skin. And everything I can feel right now is you. And I never want that to go away."

And Crowley was immensely, ferociously grateful for everything Aziraphale had just said. The love, the candor, the willingness to be open, vulnerable, sensual, evocative, and deliciously discreet. Every instinct demanded that he reach out, rekindle the fire, swim in this newfound phenomenon…

When there was an unpleasant scratching sound coming from somewhere in the flat.

Aziraphale broke the kiss. "What the Hell is that?"

"Hello? Crowley? Anyone there?" a familiar voice said.

"Shit," Crowley spat. "It's the TV."

"What?"

"You know… TV, radio, it's how Hell gets in touch these days. It's why I don't have any broadcasting-type electronics in the kitchen."

"Oh," Aziraphale said, with a big, noticeable gulp. "I see."

"I'm sorry, angel."

Crowley stood up, and walked out into the hallway. His body was practically vibrating with want, after hearing what his companion had to say about feeling _changed_. After waiting for this sort of intimacy for hundreds upon hundreds of years, anticipation had risen in his body so quickly, even he himself couldn't believe it. Just a minute of admittedly very potent snogging had got him more wound-up than anything so benign ever had – than perhaps anything, save for last night's events, ever had. He had to either calm down, or "miracle" his erection into submission before letting himself be seen by whoever was on that screen, and he'd had to get away from Aziraphale in order to make it happen. Just the sight of the grey cashmere, and the sweet, lingering Heavenly scent of him… Crowley shuddered.

"Crowley, you fucking snake!" Beelzebub's voice crackled from the other room. "I know you're there! Show yourself!"

"Well, if ever there was the opposite of an aphrodisiac," he muttered to himself, feeling all excitement ebb away, and dread overtake him. "Thanks, Beelzebub."

Aziraphale appeared in the hallway behind him. "What are we waiting for?"

Crowley looked him over and saw a bulge at the front of the grey robe.

"That," Crowley whispered, indicating it, and quickly averting his eyes. "Get under control before you go in there."

"Oh my!" Aziraphale breathed.

"Just the fact of you wearing that robe…" Crowley hissed.

"I know, I know," Aziraphale said, his face twisting into a sort of panic. "Damn it, why didn't I just put on clothes?"

"Shut up, we both know why," Crowley said. "What's done is done. But you can't get into the bedroom to change without them seeing you, so at the very least, don't go in there while you're… tumescent."

"Tumescent," Aziraphale repeated, as though shocked by it. "Really, Crowley."

"I'm serious!"

"I know!"

With that, Crowley stepped forward, sauntering into his parlour to find Beelzebub on the screen, looking pissed-off, rather than her usual _bored._ And when he saw what else was on the screen, he found that he could not hide his surprise.

"Lord Beelzebub and… Michael?" he asked, incredulously.

"Hello, Crowley," said the Archangel Michael, sitting beside Beelzebub on what appeared to be the set of Sheldon and Leonard's apartment on _The Big Bang Theory._ "Where is Aziraphale? We know he must be there, as well."

"He'll be along in a mo'," Crowley answered, flippantly, fighting the urge to cast his eyes over to the hallway where Aziraphale could be seen, eyes closed, calming in progress. "So… a bit odd to see the two of you together. I thought all interdepartmental cooperation had been suspended in the wake of… you know."

"Well, yes, that was the plan," Michael said. "But some information has come to light, and it seemed to behove both sides to become knowledgeable, and to take action."

And that's when Aziraphale wandered in. "Hello, Michael."

She smiled. "Hello, Aziraphale. Nice robe."

"Thank you. Nice hairdo."

"Did you just say, it's a bit odd to see the two of us together?" Beelzebub cut in, loudly, shrilly. "That's rich! You of all demons know the benefits of working with the opposition. You're more aware than anyone that a certain _quid pro quo_ can be achieved."

Michael continued to stare at Aziraphale with a smug, beatific smile. "Oh, from the looks of things, I'd say there's a lot more being _achieved_ here than just _quid pro quo._ At least of the sort that _we're_ used to."

"Jealous?" asked Crowley.

"Look, can we just get to the point?" Aziraphale asked. "What are the two of you doing together, and on Crowley's television, and on a day like today?'

"Yes, quite," Michael said, wiping away the smirk, and sitting up straight. "I suppose you've been wondering, Aziraphale, why the change was not made."

"The… change. Erm…"

"As I recall, you were told you had until midnight, but clearly, you've been given an extension," she continued.

"Y-yes," Aziraphale stuttered. He and Crowley briefly looked at each other, trying to hide their surprise. "I _had_ been wondering. We both had."

"Well, late last night, Gabriel was contacted by Beelzebub, and she passed along some intelligence that we found to be quite interesting," Michael explained. "She informed us of The Third Domain."

"I see," Aziraphale said, gulping hard.

"I don't need to tell you, Gabriel was flummoxed."

"I wish I could have been there."

"The revelation of a third supernatural domain, having been kept hidden for six thousand years without the knowledge of Heaven nor Hell, is, to say the least, distressing. For the moment, we don't know what it means."

"Nor do we, we admit," Beelzebub sighed.

"There is good, and there is evil. What could the interests be of a third domain?" Michael asked.

There was a heavy silence. Crowley looked back and forth between a frowning Aziraphale, and the TV. "You're… y-you're not asking us, are you?"

"Perhaps," said Beelzebub. "What would you be willing to share?"

"Erm… how about nothing?" Crowley said.

"We thought as much," Michael said, evenly. "It will take quite a bit of investigation and cooperation in order for the ranks of Heaven and Hell to work out what the Third Domain might want."

"Might _want_?" Aziraphale asked.

"Might want with us. Or with you," Michael told him. After a pause, she added, "Really… no ideas on that front?"

"None," Aziraphale said, speaking as evenly as the Archangel.

"We will need to find out its motivations, its makeup, more about its... personnel," Michael said, pointedly.

"And then, we'll need to work out how to attack it," Beelzebub added, her voice, going _splat_ across the conversation like red paint. "A third domain that lies in wait, as powerful as Heaven or Hell, it cannot stand."

"Well, on that we disagree," Michael qualified. "At least, on principle. This has happened all rather quickly, and the Almighty has been thus far silent on the topic. It would be a grave sin to speak for Her without more knowledge, so for the moment, we're operating under the assumption of benevolence."

Crowley laughed. "Assumption of benevolence. Right. Because She'd never try to take down another domain for no good bloody reason!"

"Silence, demon," Michael said, authoritatively, though with no malice in her voice.

"I second that," Beelzebub said.

Crowley continued to laugh. "Right, right."

"And so, until more is known, I have advised Gabriel that all changes in celestial personnel should be suspended," Michael continued. "And he has agreed."

"Which means?" Crowley wondered.

"Which means that Aziraphale remains as he is until further notice," said Michael.

Both Crowley and Aziraphale noticed the fact that Michael was careful to say _Aziraphale remains as he is, _rather than _Aziraphale remains an angel_. She now was unsure of _what_ he was. They had suspended "changes in celestial personnel" because they were no longer sure whether Aziraphale was still a celestial being or not, whether he was, in fact, still theirs to cast out. Perhaps they were afraid to find out what sort of retaliatory action Aziraphale could exact, should they try, and fail, to make him "fall."

"Well, should I say _thank you_?" Aziraphale asked Michael, a bit bitterly.

"I rather think you should," she said.

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed, as he and the Archangel studied each other for a long moment. "Michael, you're the one who voted not to cast me out, aren't you?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," Michael said, breaking eye-contact.

"And you're the one keeping me in stasis for the moment," he said.

"All in the capacity of official business," she told him. "For Heaven's sake."

"Well, then… thank you."

"Don't mention it," she said. "Honestly. Don't."

He nodded.

"So, what kind of _quid pro quo_ did you two crazy gals find?" Crowley asked. "Beelzebub gave you intel about the Third Domain, such as it is, but what did the dark Lord of the Flies get in return?"

Both Michael and Beelzebub were silent, staring out from the brown leather sofa on the screen.

"Oh, let me guess," Crowley continued. "Access to the Nutter prophecies!"

Both figures on the screen stiffened, betraying the fact that Crowley was correct.

Aziraphale gasped softly and seemed to come alive all of a sudden, and he stood up deadly straight.

Crowley felt the change and turned to look at him. Aziraphale's eyes were as wide as saucers, and he could see that the angel had come to some sort of realisation, and that it was not necessarily good.

"Michael, Beelzebub," Aziraphale said, with a polite smile that Crowley could tell, nevertheless, was masking some sort of driving nervousness. "Just as a point of interest, _what time was it_ when Hell first made contact with Gabriel?"

"Why the Hell should that matter?" Beelzebub asked him.

"Oh, well," Aziraphale feigned to chuckle. "It doesn't. It's just, well, I'm a bit pedantic, or so I'm told, and… I'd like to know."

"You're not pedantic, you're an idiot," she shot back.

"Zing! You've got me! Good one, Lord Beelzebub!" he said, uncomfortably. "But… indulge me, would you?"

Michael and Beelzebub looked at each other with confusion, and the latter shrugged.

Michael held up her hand, and a rectangular device appeared in it. It looked like a clear panel of glass. She looked at it, and poked it as though it were a Smartphone.

"According the Gabriel's official schedule," Michael said. "Beelzebub made contact with the Archangel Network at eleven fifty-eight last night, GMT. Just in the nick of time for you, Aziraphale."

"Why, yes it was. You're quite right, there, Michael! Thank God for small favours, eh?" Aziraphale said, nervously, machine-gunning his words. "Or thank Someone, anyway."

"_What's wrong with you? Calm down,_" Crowley growled at him, barely audibly, teeth gritted.

"Well, if there's nothing else," the angel said. "I should be getting about my day. Good grief, I'm not even dressed!"

"There's nothing else," Michael said.

"You'll be in touch, I trust," Aziraphale said, with a tight smile.

"The two of you are on a need-to-know basis," Beelzebub said.

"Fair enough," Aziraphale chirped. "Nice to see you both. Bye, now!"

Crowley turned toward the sofa and found the remote, and switched off the TV. With that, the two figures on the screen, and the _Big Bang Theory_ set disappeared, and the TV was off.

"What's got into you?" Crowley asked the very agitated angel.

"Crowley… the prophecy."

"What? What prophecy?"

"The Tinkerbell prophecy," Aziraphale said, pushing his voice out harshly. "The one you read to me in Tadfield, at the inn, and I said I was certain it was about Tinkerbell, but clearly I was..."

"...clearly you were hammered. What of it?"

"I need to see it."

With that, Aziraphale turned and hurried down the hall toward Crowley's office, where Agnes Nutter's second volume was stored in a laptop computer.

Ordinarily, he had quite the sizeable disdain for modern instruments such as this one, and he might even pretend not to remember how to use it, though it had only been about twenty-four hours since he'd been shown. But now, apparently, was not the time to be precious and play games. He sat down in the throne-like chair, threw the screen up, and effortlessly pulled up the file containing the prophecies in question.

"Blimey," Crowley muttered, following him. "You _must_ have a bee in your bonnet."

Aziraphale had an idea that finding the prophecy in question would not be too difficult – somehow his angelic prowess would allow him to scroll right to it. And something in Mistress Nutter's abilities that seemed to reach across time…

…and he was correct. He pressed the _forward_ key, and held it for about five seconds before letting go. And there, on the screen, clear as day, was a photograph of Agnes Nutter's nice and accurate penmanship.

Aziraphale read aloud the prophecy at the top of the page. "_When a Liberator of Mankind, a dispassionate Being of Heofon, becomes at last grounded with his Essential, and takes leave of his ascetic Qualms, the Probing of the Tertiary Territory will commence."_

A silence hung in the air for a few moments, before Crowley said, "Yeah, angel, I'm going to need a little help here. Why are you losing your mind over this?"

The angel stared at the screen. "Quiet for a minute, Crowley. I need to think. Something about this, obviously, is cloying at me… I don't fully understand why… although…"

Crowley leaned over him, and stared at the words on the screen. "_The Tertiary Territory_," he said. "Whoa, that's… that's…"

"The Third Domain," said Aziraphale. "Ask any thesaurus – the terms are interchangeable."

"Okay, _now_ I'm interested," the demon said.

* * *

**1\. Please forgive the little nod to Doctor Who. ;-) It was too obvious to resist!**

**2\. Uh-oh... prophecy alert!**

**3\. Please leave a review! I would love that! **

**4\. Thank you for reading! :-)**


	11. Chapter 11

**When last we saw our ineffables, they had just learned that Aziraphale had not, in fact, fallen (one reviewer kept predicting that it wouldn't happen!), and that there is a prophecy from Agnes Nutter, concerning the Third Domain! Thus far, they'd been pretty certain that it was a made-up phenomenon... so what the Hell? Or Heaven?**

**I've been aware at different times that this story seems to be very heavy on Crowley's thoughts and point of view... perhaps because I like him better ;-), perhaps because I can relate to him more (most of us can, I should think). Perhaps because I feel that Crowley has actual thoughts about the relationship, and that he's done some conscious analyzing and angsting. Whereas, it seems that Aziraphale's p.o.v. is something like attraction/denial/love/denial/sexual frustration/denial.**

**Anyway, we're going to dip briefly into Aziraphale's thoughts and past... it was a challenge for me. I'm not exactly a hedonist, however I was not raised in a religious household - all of my knowledge of Heaven and guilt is theoretical. So, it's an intellectual (rather than a visceral) exercise for me to understand why someone like Aziraphale behaves the way he does, which might make it seem a bit stilted. My hope is that my writing is good enough to gloss over my gut-level unfamiliarity with the concepts (!), and it doesn't halt the story too much. :-) It was a fun challenge.**

**And I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

ELEVEN

Aziraphale had come into being, and had been "reared," as it were, in a way that had left precious tiny room for grey-area. Heaven was a very _white_ place; things were good. One must be good. One must obey. One must be patient and calm, and take one's cues from the Almighty, and as long as one does that, one shall not falter. One's spirit is, in a very real sense, _infinitely_ more important than one's body (and actually, most major world religions had got that bit correct, though a few of them failed miserably in the interpretation and execution).

That was all very well and good for those Heaven-dwellers who lived quite literally with their heads in the clouds. Heaven contained no _creatures_, and therefore had no need of creature comforts. It contained no corporeal concerns; no real pain but no real pleasure, no real horror but no real beauty. It contained nothing to feel passionate about, nothing to despise, nothing to hold onto…

…and no temptation.

But Earth? It was a great, big bundle of nothing but wonderful, fantastic stimuli. _The World_ contained all of the above, and Aziraphale had very quickly, as they say, _gone native._ He'd been keen to embrace not just foods and texts, but also _people, _perfumes, flowers, music, art, wine, humor, compassion, friendliness… He'd devoured everything that he could, shared everything that he could, and constantly sought more, whilst always being the dutiful angel. He'd been wrought as one of the most sensitive of celestial beings in the first place, and so it was thought that he'd make a good liaison between the Archangels and mankind.

But it was that very sensitivity made him a veritable sponge for all the amazing things the material world had on offer. Not to mention, Aziraphale, as the Earthly emissary, had something to which other angels could not relate: a _constant_ corporeal form. Sure, Gabriel and Michael and the rest, they had bodies when they walked about on Earth (and _that _was something they did as seldom as possible) but they abandoned their bodies when they were in Heaven. Aziraphale walked about on Earth _all the time._ He was the only angel who spent any quality time in his body. That meant, unlike any other celestial entity, twenty-four hours a day, he could _feel_. He could bleed. He could cry. He could sweat, he gained weight (and also lost it, if he chose), he got hangnails, his hair grew. He had taste buds, a stomach, genitalia, fingerprints, bones, muscles, tendons…

Ah yes, the Almighty had created him imperfect – this angelic soul in a human-like body. He desired to be obedient, but all that flesh and skin and nerves… they got the better of him sometimes.

Make no mistake, though, Heaven had been correct about the sensitivity thing: he was _very_ good at his job. He had an intrinsic sense of the best course of miracles and blessings. He had a talent for seeing possible ripple effects through the human spirit, and knew almost always precisely what to do to make things better, even in The Beginning. (Through the ages he had observed that his demonic counterpart possessed the same sensitivity, which made him equally susceptible to _The World,_ and also better than most at small, insidious tortures. And later, when the need arose, he performed the odd blessing surprisingly deftly.)

But being sensitive and a sponge had also left Aziraphale susceptible to temptation. And he knew it. Well, he'd have to be quite the extraordinary imbecile not to realise it, wouldn't he?

God tests us, time and time again. Especially with temptations.

And so, there was Crowley, almost from day-one. Well, back then, he was Crawley, and until humankind came into its own, he was more reptilian than humanoid, sometimes a bit of both. But even then, charm oozed off of him like crude oil… which is appropriate, given that crude oil had been a demonic invention.

For a long, long time, Aziraphale believed that Crowley (though a demon, a being in his own right, totally sentient, autonomous, et cetera, et cetera) was a test for him, sent, probably indirectly, by the Almighty. At first, it was not a physical test – that is to say, he was not physically tempted by Crowley. Sexuality was not on Aziraphale's metaphorical radar just yet.

And more often than not, he failed the test. Miserably. Spectacularly.

In the early days, the temptation of Crowley had been all about the simple fact of daring to fraternise with an amiable adversary, being seduced by the grey-area, and by the little bits of harmless hedonism in which he was wont to indulge while Crowley was about – mostly drinking and whinging. But after a couple thousand years of no-one in Heaven bringing it up, no-one giving any indication of realising that he and Crowley worked often side-by-side, and various agents mentioning Crowley's name as though Aziraphale had never heard it, the angel began to let go of that particular neurosis. He began to realise that what Crowley had been saying for centuries was true: no-one in Heaven gave a toss about what Crowley was doing, and no-one in Hell had ever given Aziraphale even the slightest hint of a thought. Moreover, the two sides only marginally cared about what their own operatives were doing, so long as stuff got done.

Because, there was one major, glaring truth about _The World_ that had not exactly escaped the likes of Heaven, but that Higher-Ups chose more or less to ignore most of the time: the sacred cannot exist without the profane. One can say that one only wants beauty, happiness, and peace in one's life, but without horror, pain, and war, how would one know the difference?

It hadn't taken Aziraphale very long at all to internalise this truth, and Crowley had internalised it in very much the same way, in the opposite direction. How could anyone be truly horrified if they had never experienced beauty? How could anyone be disgraced if they had never tasted glory?

The two Earthly emissaries could see quite clearly that they were two sides of the same coin, though they would never have spoken those words back in the old days. However, once the angel had released his grip on his belief that Crowley was his personal demon to slay, it had taken still taken another few thousand years to bend to _the arrangement._ And even then, he often tried to pretend it wasn't happening. He never forgot that he was meant to be _the nice one_, but he also never forgot that _nice_ was nice, but it wasn't all that there should be. Small corners of his mind harboured not-nice things, and as the millennia wore on, those corners changed colour, texture, they grew and shrank…

And weirdly, one of them morphed into love. One of those places in Aziraphale's subconscious, where he cultivated the true notion that without Crowley, life on Earth would be boring as Heaven, it had begun to grow out of its clay pot and curl round other parts of his mind. It wound around his _feelings_, like happiness, warmth and comfort. And once he accepted the fact that Crowley was actually _nice_ a lot of the time himself, lines blurred, and suddenly, there he was: quite in love.

Though, ninety-nine per cent of the time, all of this complex, explosive, Earthiness was buried deeply beneath the surface.

Crowley's Presence as a concept began to interbreed with Emotions, to form new Emotions, specifically Crowley-related-Emotions, that Aziraphale sometimes (most of the time) could not face. Before long, the Emotions, both faced and ignored, began to dig into his corporeal form… his body.

He could feel Crowley's Presence in his body.

And that's where things started to get properly confusing. He was feeling _desire_, _lust_, _yearning…_ and he could not abide it. He was an angel, for God's sake, and this was _not_ happening! Although the exterior, and first few layers were all quite beatific, the core of Aziraphale had been churning with heat and conflict, ready to erupt, for probably the past three hundred years, if not longer.

He didn't quite understand any of it. He barely knew it was there – all he knew for sure was that he felt a violent dissonance whenever he was with Crowley, and it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Something about that mix of fire and comfort made him seek out Crowley's company more and more often…

And then, one day in 1941, standing in the ruins of a cathedral, surrounded by dead Nazis, Crowley handed him a satchel full of books.

The books pushed it all into the light. The kindness, the effort, the show of _knowing him_ thoroughly…

_I love you and I have no idea what to do about it._

* * *

Aziraphale felt a little bit that way today, given how things had turned out. Only this morning, he knew that he loved _all of this_, and didn't know quite what to do about it.

_All of this_, being waking up in Crowley's flat each day, walking about in a robe for hours, fully-realised intimacy, a life _à deux,_ with familiarity, cosiness, privacy, sex, kisses, coffee in the morning…

But the prophecy was weighing heavily on him, and as an angel, still an extension of Heaven, he could not help but feel that he was being punished for _all of this,_ which Heaven saw as a transgression. If Crowley was a test, then he'd been failing in small ways for thousands of years… last night, he'd taken a gorgeous, well-executed swan dive into failure.

But _oh_, hadn't it been spectacular? Truly? Every tightly-coiled, overwhelming moment?

He sat in Crowley's kitchen, staring at a computer screen, while the demon threw a handful of berries into a bowl, along with a container of plain yoghurt, a squeeze of honey, and some granola.

Crowley hadn't made breakfast yet, since he'd begun the morning by wondering how on Earth he would ever do justice to the night they had shared. But the day had taken a decidedly different turn when the Archangel Michael and Lord Beelzebub had turned up on the television screen in Crowley's parlour. Now, there was no time for crêpes, or miraculously-timed deliveries from the Ritz, or peach Mimosas…

Still, he did want his companion to have _something _to nosh on.

He set the parfait down on the table beside Aziraphale, along with a spoon.

Aziraphale absently took a bite, then read the prophecy aloud again. "_When a Liberator of Mankind, a dispassionate Being of Heofon, becomes at last grounded with his Essential, and takes leave of his ascetic Qualms, the Probing of the Tertiary Territory will commence."_

"Was it that _tertiary_ thing that grabbed you?" Crowley asked, topping off their coffee. "Having seen _the Tertiary Territory_ in a prophecy, given what we're going through now, with this fallen-angel-oops-we-changed-our-minds meshugas?"

"That was part of it," Aziraphale admitted. "But the combination of other words… _grounded with his Essential, ascetic Qualms…"_

"It's very sensual," Crowley muttered, sitting down, close enough to see the screen himself. "Or… could be interpreted that way."

Aziraphale squinted at the text. "Sensual. Really? Well, I suppose…"

"_Grounded with his Essential,_" Crowley said. "I'm thinking, Earthy, sense-based, feeling-based. _Becoming grounded _means coming down from on-high in favour of something _Earthy_. It could even be something as simple as, you know, getting out of your own head so you can just _feel_ something."

"You interpreted all of that from _grounded? _Might you be a tad over-analytical?"

"It's a prophecy, written by an insane witch who's been dead for three hundred and fifty years, and communicated in metaphors half the time, Aziraphale. What am I supposed to do? Type it into Google Translate?"

"I don't know what that means, but I'll go ahead and say _touché_ anyhow," Aziraphale muttered. "Your point is taken."

"_His essential _has got to be about another person, because what else is really essential? And the word _ascetic_ is about self-deprivation, but the prophecy talks of abandoning it."

"Oh," Aziraphale said, flatly at first. Then, "Oh, Crowley, I don't like this at all! We'd better delineate and translate each phrase, then."

"Break it down."

"Indeed. _When a Liberator of Mankind_… a liberator of mankind," Aziraphale said, trailing off. "Someone who saves people? Like a policeman or a firefighter? It could even be a clergyman…"

"_Mankind_ suggests bigger. It's not just someone who _saves people_, it's someone who…"

It occurred to them both at once.

"…has saved… mankind?" Aziraphale asked, his voice high with worry. "As in, the planet?"

"Oh shit," Crowley sighed.

"_A dispassionate Being of Heofon,_" Aziraphale continued. "Heofon being the Old Anglo-Saxon word for Heaven."

"A disenfranchised Heavenly associate," Crowley said. "That's you, Aziraphale. A disillusioned, disappointed, dispassionate angel who helped save the planet."

Aziraphale looked at Crowley with heartrending worry in his eyes. He gulped hard, then, "When he _becomes at last grounded with his Essential, and takes leave of his ascetic Qualms…"_

"I think we can both see what that means, angel," Crowley muttered.

"When he… when _I_ became _grounded_ with… _you_…" Aziraphale pressed on, sputtering through the interpretation with difficulty. Though, the difficulty was not with the interpretation itself, but rather, with the weight of it. "_Grounded_, as you described it, being…"

"… Earthy, sense-based, out-of-your-head, listening to your body…"

"And _ascetic Qualms _being the misgivings I had about… well, I was depriving myself, wasn't I? I'd been keeping all of my desires under lock-and-key for so, so long, and I finally abandoned all that, and dared to have that sense-based experience, the creature comfort… to have _you_, at last…"

"_The Probing of the Tertiary Territory_ commenced."

"Oh, God," the angel breathed. "We caused this, Crowley. Or rather, I did."

"No, hold on…"

"Heaven and Hell are going to join forces and tear reality apart trying to uncover the truth about the Third Domain because I finally gave in last night!"

"No, angel, no. Listen to me…"

"Crowley, it's right there in the prophecy! Agnes Nutter has never been wrong! Not ever!"

"Angel, listen," Crowley said, earnestly, grabbing Aziraphale's arm hard enough to get his attention. He let go. "For a start, if it's in a Nutter prophecy, and Nutter is never wrong, then it was meant to be. There was nothing to be done about it. You were _going_ to set yourself free – set us both free – no matter what. It is written. Besides, how could our actions together lead Heaven and Hell into something this daft, this big? It's ridiculous. It's Agnes Nutter predicting the coincidence of events happening at once, not a cause-to-effect thing."

"That may be true, but…"

"I'm not finished," Crowley told him, leaning on the table with one elbow. "For another thing, you _deserved_ to give in. We both did. We did nothing wrong."

"I know that in my gut, Crowley, it's just…"

Crowley now got to his feet, nearly toppling the chair he'd been sitting in. "No! Stop!" he barked. He stalked around the table, and turned back to Aziraphale. He cringed, then said, "In that room, last night, with you… it was the only truly _exquisite_ thing I've ever had in my grasp, in over six thousand years of existence. And it was the absolute purest act of love that I can imagine. And you are _not _going to take that away from me! Agnes fucking Nutter sure as Hell isn't either!"

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale practically whispered now. "I wouldn't want to take it away from you. Or from me, because I feel the same way."

"Do you?" Crowley asked, just a hint of cynicism creeping into his voice.

"Of course – how could you even wonder, after all this time? Just being with you was… beyond words. I have no words. Nary an adjective nor a comparison… being touched by you, it defies language."

"You're a big fan of the word _ineffable_. You've finally found something that's actually ineffable, and not just God's Mysterious Ways."

"I suppose that's true," Aziraphale said lightly, with a smile. He looked down at his hands in his lap. "Again, I'm sorry, Crowley. I didn't mean to make our time together about something other than… us."

Crowley took a deep breath, and sat back down. He squeezed Aziraphale's hand, and whispered, "Thank you." Then, after a few beats he said, "Want to know what else I think, angel? It think it was practically entrapment! Gabriel and the Almighty, they pushed us into it, and now are taking advantage of the prophecy!"

"Pushed us into it? Oh, Crowley. Surely not even you could believe that!"

"I mean, don't get me wrong. All of the stuff that happened last night, it happened because it needed to. It had been begging to. I mean… I love you so much, it hurts. Feels like it's been building for aeons. We were never going to be able to hold back forever, were we? But the _catalyst_ for it to happen _last night_ was the fact that the Archwanker Network and their Almighty Boss tried to cast you out. Without that, it would've taken longer for us to…" Crowley shrugged.

"Longer. That seems unthinkable now."

"Doesn't it just? But it happened because you were upset, so I comforted you. You thought everything was changing anyway, so you decided to lean into that change, and admit what you've always wanted… and now here we are. So, you _could_ blame the Almighty for all of this, which you should do anyway, because She's the instigator of everything, She pulls Gabriel's strings, and She's undoubtedly going to demand that the Third Domain be destroyed."

"Oh, Crowley."

"But even without that, you're overlooking two fairly obvious reasons why you should relax, and stop blaming yourself – blaming us – for the possible, hypothetical destruction of reality."

"Oh yes?"

"Oh yes. And I'm not just saying all this because I'm terrified that you'll interpret all of this prophecy rubbish as a reason why you're not meant to experience physical love, and return our relationship to the former status-quo."

"You're so dramatic," Aziraphale tsked, but secretly, that's exactly what he'd been wondering, in spite of being terrified of the idea, himself. "But please, enlighten me."

"One: Beelzebub made contact at eleven-fifty-eight," Crowley said. "And after she described the Third Domain to Gabriel, Michael talked him into keeping you on the roster for a bit longer."

"So?"

"The timing doesn't work out. You and I didn't start getting physical until after midnight, after you thought God had abandoned you. You said guilt wasn't a thing, and if Heaven was watching, you didn't give a damn. So, our tryst could not have kicked this off."

"But Crowley, what if the clock in my bedroom is wrong? We're only talking about a four-minute discrepancy! It could easily be said that I made the decision, then Beelzebub made contact. We just don't know."

"If that were the case, how would they have had time to decide not to cast you out? Whatever… don't answer that. It's not the point. Anyway, one last thing you're missing, angel: there is no Third Domain!" Crowley pointed out. "Heaven and Hell can search all they like – they're not going to find it."

"I don't agree," Aziraphale said, rather evenly. "I'm sorry, Crowley, but I'm afraid that this is the thing that _you_ have been missing about this whole Third Domain business. Do you remember Beelzebub's words? 'A third domain that lies in wait, as powerful as Heaven or Hell,' was what she said. We both know that _that _is real. It's not what _they_ think it is, but it's real."

"It's humanity," Crowley said, flatly, realising it himself.

"It is. Which means you were right when you said that a _big one_ is coming. All of us, against all of them. Heaven and Hell versus humanity."

"Right. Are we us, or are we them?"

"I don't know anymore. Do you?"

Crowley shook his head.

"What I'm afraid of, Crowley, is that if our liaison last night instigated – even just at the level of prophecy and coincidence – the two sides' investigation into the Third Domain, then we've just sped up the process of them realising that the humans, collectively, are just as powerful as they are. Without all this, it would have taken them - who knows? - another six thousand years to work that out. You and I, we know it because we've been here… we've been Earthy and grounded, since the Garden. But Gabriel, and the like…"

"Well, Michael's clever, even if Gabriel isn't," Crowley conceded, now quite concerned, himself. "And Beelzebub isn't totally clueless about the world at-large, even if guys like Hastur are."

"Exactly. And with both side on the case, they'll have it solved in a century or two, and then humanity is in danger. Again."

"So, the bottom line is, it doesn't matter if we've set things in motion or not. We've got to face the fact that the idea of a Third Domain was conceived, and _that _is ultimately what's going to mean the end of the world."

"And we have to stop it, Crowley."

The demon groaned. "Yeah, I suppose we bloody do. At least we've got more than eleven years this time."

"We've made the mistake before of thinking we had loads of time. Perhaps we shouldn't dawdle."

"What does Agnes say?"

"Oh, _now _you care what the rest of the prophecies say?" Aziraphale asked.

* * *

**All righty, folks. A new direction for our heroes. Or is it the same direction as before?**

**Either way, I'm extremely needy, and am languishing with such little feedback! If you're out there, if you're reading, please play fair, and let me know your thoughts! It is a HUGE motivator to keep me writing!**

**Thanks so much for reading!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Our favorite pair were reading into the Agnes Nutter prophecy that suggested they might have kicked off Hell's and Heaven's inquiry into the Third Domain. More importantly, they've realized that this probably means "the big one" that Crowley talked about at the end of the series, Heaven/Hell vs all of humanity, is probably _this_, and it's coming sooner than we think!**

**Now, they are in preliminary talks about how to stop it... but the end of the chapter ends on an interesting note. ;-)**

**Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

TWELVE

Mid-afternoon saw the angel and the demon doing what they do best, when there's a conflict needing their attention: having lunch. With alcohol.

Well, Aziraphale was having lunch – a rich one with Chicken Cordon Bleu, arugula and blood orange salad, truffle risotto, and a fantastic Pouilly Fuissé. Crowley was sitting across from him with his second, nearly-drained Bloody Mary, and a plate of untouched lobster ravioli (because he'd been informed that he had to order something, and he'd heard Aziraphale fretting over the choice between Cordon Bleu and lobster ravioli). They talked, and meanwhile, Crowley watched the angel enjoy his food.

If Aziraphale's favourite creature comfort was eating, then one of Crowley's had to be watching.

_Is there such a fetish as culinary voyeurism?_ he wondered. He felt certain that there must be. He also noted how odd it was that in six thousand years, there was a fetish he hadn't encountered.

Until now, that is.

All of a sudden, the angel's eyes turned down, and he sighed.

"What?" Crowley asked.

"I think we should just tell them what we did," Aziraphale said.

"Tell them… _what?"_ Crowley wondered, imagining himself confessing to Beelzebub that he'd canoodled an angel and liked it (as if she didn't know), and that it might have (sort of) brought about their Third Domain obsession. "What we did… what, last night?"

"No! Oh, now, really, Crowley!"

"Well, how the Heaven should I know what you're thinking, unless you say it?"

"I mean, that Sunday. When we body-swapped."

"Oh," Crowley answered, flatly. Then, he took a breath, and said, "I really don't fancy shooting you down, angel, so I'm truly sorry for what I'm about to say. _Why the living fuck_ would we do a thing like that?"

"It would make all of this Third Domain nonsense disappear," said Aziraphale. "They're going to attack humankind in the next couple hundred years – Heaven and Hell on a united front. They don't know it yet, but I can see it coming, and so can you. The only reason they think there's a Third Domain is because your man Hastur brought it up, and _you_ didn't see fit to debunk it!"

"So this is my fault?"

"No, it's not your fault," Aziraphale dismissed with a frustrated growl. "You didn't start this – Hastur did. Or rather, you and I did, but only to save our own lives, and each other's. But you haven't… well, neither of us has done anything to stop all this. But we could. It would be a selfless act. Confess our sins."

"I'm a demon," Crowley said flatly. "I don't do selfless, unless it's for you. And I sure as Hell don't _confess my sins._ I relish them."

"Well, if you don't want to wind up on the hot tail of another Apocalypse, then you might want to consider it."

"_Hot on the trail_, Aziraphale, not _on the hot tail. _Unless that was a Freudian slip of some sort."

"Pardon?"

"Listen, if we told them how we did it, they would properly kill us," Crowley reminded him. "And this time, they'd get it bloody right."

Aziraphale stared into the distance. "But it might save humanity."

"Come on, angel," Crowley groaned. "You know as well as I do, they'll come over all Apocalyptic again sooner or later. Us coming clean – all that would do is delay it. And if we were destroyed, you and I, there would be no-one to counter it."

"Crowley…"

"No! Out of the question!" Crowley said, loud enough to turn a few heads. "I'm not confessing anything, and neither are you. I've only just got you. I'm not losing you by letting you calmly orchestrate your own hideous murder."

"All right then," Aziraphale said, sardonically. "Better ideas?"

Crowley gazed at the angel through his dark glasses, with annoyance in his hidden, yellow eyes. Then he took a deep breath, took a big swig off his drink, and said, "We could do something to arm humankind, I suppose."

Aziraphale's eyebrows went up with interest. "That's not a bad idea."

"Of course it isn't," Crowley shrugged.

"What do you suggest? Because the only thing I can think of is… well, if only there were a way for us to _share_ some of our magic with the humans," Aziraphale said, with a low, conspiratorial voice. "That would really be something."

Crowley thought about this. "Well, when the Almighty decided to end things, what was Her plan? Multi-nation, thermonuclear war. How did She go about it? Computers."

"Ah!"

Crowley speculated, "Could we lend our powers to computer science to somehow tap into, or monitor, or synchronise with Infernal and Celestial Forces?"

"What, so that the humans could see another Armageddon coming for themselves, and learn how to avert it_?_" the angel wondered now. "They'd witness the wiles of the evil one, and… thwart!"

"Yes, for a start. But could the humans _act _on the plains of Heaven and Hell, to affect it, to make stuff happen, using computer strokes?"

Aziraphale's shoulders went limp, and his fork-in-hand stopped midway between his plate and his mouth. "That's… that's…"

"Drastic."

"Diabolical!"

"Erm, hello?"

"Crowley, we couldn't do that! We can't give humans the ability to _affect_ the supernatural plains! They're not even supposed to know for sure that those plains exist!"

"It wouldn't be _all _humans," Crowley practically whined. "Just the advanced ones."

"The _advanced_ ones? They're not chimpanzees or Border Collies."

"They're chimpanzee-like, in many ways."

"All right, and whom, pray tell, would you consider to be an _Advanced Human_?"

"Someone like Einstein. Intelligence, knowledge, plus perspective."

"He's long dead, Crowley. Hawking is out of the picture now, too."

"Then… who's the astrophysicist, the one with the clever Tweets, the one at the Rose center in New York?"

"Neil DeGrasse Tyson?" Aziraphale said. "Okay, fair enough. Who else?"

"I dunno… Bono?"

"What's Bono?"

"He's not a _what, _he's a… ugh, okay. Never mind. Too much context would have to go into that explanation," Crowley sighed. "All right then, something in-between. Not just _monitoring_, but also not _weaponizing_, which is, let's face it, what it would become if we gave the human brain a tool like that. It wouldn't hurt to look into, say, _guiding_ the next fifty years of computer technology, just in case."

Aziraphale's fork finished its journey to his mouth, and he finished the last bite of his chicken. For a few minutes, he concentrated on the arugula and orange, having already cleaned away the risotto. Crowley watched with his usual fascination, drained his Bloody Mary, and flagged the waiter for another.

"But here's the dilemma as I see it," Aziraphale said, mouth full. "While this could be a brilliant idea, and could be used in a brilliant way, my fear is that it would only do more to draw attention to the fact that the humans are not to be underestimated. And our two organisations underestimating them is one of the things that's kept them around thus far."

"Then you and I will have to… finesse it," Crowley offered. "We'll take every opportunity to downplay humanity's powers in the eyes of Heaven and Hell."

"At best, that would buy us time."

"Time - exactly. We're all just on this linear forward-slog, toward God Only Knows What, and everyone is just trying to get more _time._ If we aren't giving the humans _time, _then what else is there?"

"Security. Certainty. Life. Joy."

Crowley shook his head. "No, angel. You know as well as I do, those things don't exist as institutions. They are ideas, constructs of sentience, and we just have to seize them where we can find them, because Heaven and Hell aren't doling them out. Isn't that how the two of us got here? Today, of all days?"

Aziraphale finished his meal, and Crowley tipped his plate of ravioli at him with an inquisitively raised eyebrow. To his surprise, the angel shook his head, and waved it away. Unfazed, Crowley put the plate aside, and leaned forward on his forearms.

"Perhaps we could put our energy into teaching the humans how to fight," Aziraphale said.

"How?"

"Educate them about the wiles of Heaven and Hell, make sure they're well-versed in the coming of End Times," Aziraphale said.

"Oh, like, say, via a book? That could be translated and handed down through generations?"

"Absolutely! Humanity could learn a lot from something like that!"

"Sure. And we'll get them on-board with some good spiritual tools to make sure they land on the proper side, when it all comes crashing down!"

"Yes, exactly!"

Crowley looked at him flatly. "Think it through, Aziraphale."

"I know it sounds ambitious, but humans can be quite clever!" the angel said, with gusto. "They can understand the physics of it, the motivations behind each domain. We'd tell them the stories of how it all began, and…"

"Build temples where they would gather, say, once a week, to hear the stories, work on their spiritual tools and be reminded of what's coming?"

Aziraphale's eyes were struck with realisation. "Oh, right. It's been tried."

"Ad nauseam."

The angel sighed. "Well, Crowley, you and I will have to fight for them one way or the other."

Crowley nodded. "If we knew more about how they'll come at it, then we could sabotage it like before. But there's no Antichrist this time, no Great Plan… Heaven and Hell both, they'll be flying by the seats of their pants."

"Sorry – you know me and the modern vernacular. Does that mean they'll be improvising?"

"Yep," said Crowley. "It'll be a big, bloody mess."

"I should think that you and I would do well to spend some time over the next few decades, getting really well-versed in Agnes Nutter's newer prophecies," Aziraphale said, with a greedy twinkle in his eye.

"We've already read the thing cover to cover," Crowley whined.

"Yes, but how many of the prophecies did you, personally, understand upon first reading?"

"All of them," Crowley replied, audaciously. "I was all over it. I'm _very_ keen on prophecy."

"You're also very keen on balderdash," Aziraphale muttered. "Thank goodness we saved the prophecies on your device, Crowley. We'll need to cross reference, do research, know them inside and out, if we're going to protect humans. It probably wouldn't hurt to talk to Miss Device again. She's probably got the inner lane to the way Mistress Nutter thinks."

"The _inside track_, Aziraphale. Not the _inner lane_. For fuck's sake."

"Yes, well. The point stands."

"Oh, wonderful. Quality time with books. Hurrah."

* * *

As it turned out, the restaurant had a tiny wine shop attached, and Aziraphale bought a case of the Pouilly Fuissé, and had it delivered immediately to the book shop.

Crowley went home to pick up the laptop, and arrived back at the shop at the same time as the delivery.

"Why here?" Crowley asked the angel, as he held the door for the courier.

"We've got to have _something_ to drink while we're combing through prophecies," answered Aziraphale, absently signing for the delivery. "Don't worry, we'll bring a few home."

"Meh, I'm not really a white wine kind of guy," Crowley said.

"You'll change your mind when you taste this."

Although, truth be told, Crowley didn't wind up finding anything at all special about the Pouilly Fuissé. He drank it because Aziraphale seemed to want him to, and it got him right tipsy right quick, just like a good wine should. And because, he needed something to take the edge off _reading_ for hours on-end.

Aziraphale had already set up the shop for a long night of research. He was going to work at his desk, and he prepared a spot for Crowley on the sofa at the coffee table. He had purchased two brand-new spiral notebooks, both of which were lying, all crisp and new, on their work surfaces with a felt-tip pen on top.

The two of them sat down to work, one with enthusiasm, and one with not-quite-concealed disdain for the task.

But, Crowley understood the implications of all this, and that it needed doing, if they were to avoid the cock-ups that turned the last Apocalypse into a complete clusterfuck. Not to mention, his incredibly lovely angel was keen on it, so he towed the line.

As they both knew, the book's very first prophecy was, "_Giveth the Pages to the Angel, and you will finde felicitous Union with Adultery's Spawn."_ This was the thing that had allowed Anathema Device to allow herself to allow Aziraphale take the volume off her hands. Agnes was giving her permission to let go, and promising a happy relationship with Newton Pulsifer.

The _Tertiary Territory_ prophecy, what Aziraphale had once called the Tinkerbell Prophecy, was on page twenty-three.

"This seems to suggest that the prophecies are not in chronological order," Aziraphale said. "Which is what I was afraid of. That makes our task so much more difficult."

"How do you figure?"

"If the first prophecy is from a month ago, and twenty-three pages later refers to last night, then it would be a mightily _full_ month for Agnes Nutter's prophecies! She must've known every move we'd make!"

"Unless she thought that you would take longer to become _grounded_ with me."

"Well, only one way to find out. Let's dig into the real meat of this thing!" Aziraphale said from his roll-top desk, with Crowley's laptop in front of him, piles of holy texts (today removed from storage) up to his waist, and fingers twinkling and itching to tap at the keys.

Crowley sat on the sofa, having sent a copy of the file to his phone. He, too, had stacks of holy texts nearby (though he didn't see the need) and HazMat equipment on standby, just in case.

"So, how do you want to do this?" the demon asked the angel. "You take prophecy number two, and I take number three?"

"Seems as good a way to start as any," said Aziraphale. "Anything you decipher or find or reference or what-have-you, record it in your notebook, with the prophecy number, and as much detail as you can. For example, if you find a Biblical reference, make sure to properly notice the book, the verse number…"

"If I find a Biblical reference, angel, I'm handing it off to you," Crowley growled. "I'm not going all HazMat unless I absolutely have to."

"Fine," Aziraphale said, annoyed. "Just… begin."

"Great," Crowley sighed. "Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

After an hour, Crowley asked, "What've you got?" He pinched his angular nose, and squeezed his reptilian eyes shut, as he leaned back on the sofa and groaned.

"Prophecy two says, _Twoscore Centuries plus One, and you shall see a Bluebird conveying Language, but who does not speak, as well as a Book of Faces that is not a Book and contains much more than Faces._"

"Oh. Twenty-first century social media. Twitter and Facebook."

Aziraphale looked at Crowley with annoyance. "Blast it. I've been looking up the mythological and Biblical and archetypal significance of bluebirds, and trying to find legends in which they either speak, or pointedly don't," he said.

"Well, that's why you've got me," Crowley shrugged. "My sensibilities aren't stalled out in the 19th century."

Aziraphale gave an exasperated _tsk,_ then continued. "The rest of the prophecy says, _Disenchanted Children born of this Age shall cause the Downfall of the infantile Form of these Conveyances, and shall seek to use similar Means to disseminate Meaning, Verity, Science, and Art."_

Crowley smiled. "If you ask me, it sounds like Agnes is predicting that vapid social media will fade into the background because the generation being born now will backlash at it. They'll try to see that in _their _world, similar technologies are used for things that are actually meaningful and/or useful."

Aziraphale stared at the screen for a few moments, then his face lit up at Crowley. "My goodness, I think you're right! What does number three say?"

"Erm…" Crowley said, blinking hard, and picking up his phone. "_Amassing Truth is of import, as there will exist an Objectivity, sorely missing from the Information Age. The Market for Authenticity becomes grander. Governance of false Witness intervenes, following the frivolous Decay of two cousin Empires."_

"Hm. Any thoughts?"

"Many. None of them helpful. Some of them should be censored in your presence, frankly."

"What have you been doing, as far as interpretation?" Aziraphale said. "Maybe I can help."

"I Googled _objectivity missing from the information age,_" Crowley said. "I've been reading articles about political polarisation, Fox News, media spin, stuff like that. Old-school journalists – well, those who were reporting on television in the sixties, seventies, and eighties, are saying that there's no objective truth these days, the way there used to be. But I don't know what it's got to do with the market for authenticity becoming grander."

"Well, let's, as you said, _break it down,_" Aziraphale said, delivering the last three words with a dorky enthusiasm that made Crowley smile in spite of himself. "_Amassing Truth is of import. _Well, gathering truth is important."

"Thanks, I got that much."

Aziraphale stared at the prophecy in the computer screen, and then said, "What if it means, gathering _fact _is important."

"Okay. Synonyms are good."

"No, Crowley, look at the rest of it. Objectivity missing from the Information Age. If what you're discussing, the polarising media, is really what this refers to, then it could be about actual facts. _The Market for Authenticity_ is the demand for fact-checking. Or, even more literal than that, the _job market_ for fact-checking expands. Authenticating what's in the press becomes much more of a viable profession."

"Oh wow. That makes sense," Crowley muttered, studying his phone. "I was thinking pop culture. Like all that bloody autotune going the way of the Dodo, and buying knockoff designer goods…"

"Well, that's why you have me," Aziraphale said. "Sometimes it pays _not_ to have one's sensibilities grounded in the precise here and now."

"Touché," Crowley muttered, grudgingly. "I guess if I'm going to interpret seventeenth-century prophecies, I'll have to stop thinking like a twenty-first century hipster. Although, to be fair, I've always been a hipster. Even before there were hipsters."

"What's a hipster?"

"It's… never mind. Okay, so, _Governance of false Witness intervenes, following the Decay of two cousin Empires._ So, does that mean fact-checking is going to become a government thing?"

"_Two cousin Empires… Two cousin Empires…_ that sounds familiar somehow…" Aziraphale mused. He stood up and crossed to a shelf in the middle of the book shop, and pulled down a volume. Crowley watched him open it, and hold the spine in one hand as he earnestly flipped pages with the other.

It occurred to the demon then that moments like this were when the angel was at his most _Aziraphalian._ It was an adjective that Crowley had long ago privately invented, mostly to describe someone adorably pedantic, incredibly innocent, aggravatingly good, and who took an almost unholy joy in books, and posterity.

Observing Aziraphale from across the room, in his element, immersed in a problem, a book, his own thoughts, it also occurred to Crowley that he absolutely _loved _this side of the angel. Actually, he loved all sides of the angel, but this thoroughly _Aziraphalian_ quality was what he had always known, and it was what truly made Aziraphale who he was. Forget all that Heavenly rubbish, and the magic and the and the immortality. _This_ view of him was what Crowley lived for.

He stretched back on the sofa with his white wine as chosen by this exquisite companion of his, the glass dangling casually between his thumb and index finger, and just watched. Aziraphale's brow was furrowed, his lips were moving subtly, his voice was a low whine, as he advanced through the volume he was studying. Every now and then, he would lightly lick one of his fingers just before turning a page, which Crowley found almost unbearable to watch.

Crowley had done this plenty of times – stopped to indulge in a tableau of Aziraphalian beauty, without the angel ever noticing (or ever letting on that he noticed). And he had always done so quietly, secretly, stewing in his own _feelings. _Although, eventually _desire _would rear its head and he'd have to shake it off.

A wicked smile crawled across his face as he realised that he didn't have to shake it off anymore. In all of this talk of protecting the human race, another possible Apocalypse, interpreting prophecy, he'd almost forgot what they were now: lovers. Not just friends, frenemies, companions, partners, or mutually desirous supernatural analogs. But proper _lovers_. They had confessed their feelings, had tasted each other's mouths, had their hands all over each other, seen each other's off-guard faces whilst pleasure overtook them. The thought gave him a chill up his spine… memories of last night flooded him – both the tender moments, and the scorching ones. This morning, there had almost been a replay, until the Archangel Michael had changed the game on them, for better or for worse…

In a moment when, before, he might have chastised himself, "Stifle it, Crowley. You're not a bloody snake anymore. He's an angel – leave him be," instead, he actually _let in_ a flood of buzzing anticipation. He stood up, and set his wine glass on the coffee table.

Prophecies could wait.

* * *

**Did you laugh? Cry? Make little woo-woo sounds?**

**Okay, I suppose you know what I'm going to say now: please review! I'm incredibly needy and a little juvenile, so I need lots of metaphorical pats on the head. :-D**

**In any case, thanks so much for reading!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Well, I'm guessing that if you've followed this story, more than a few of you could feel something smutty on the horizon. You would be correct! ****Thus begins a two-chapter span of our ineffable pair further exploring the pleasures of the flesh together! ****But please read a few of my thoughts before you jump in. Because, I've really struggled with whether to post these scenes as they are.**

* * *

**1\. First and foremost: this is NSFW. It is rated M, for sure! If you are a reader who does not read "M stuff," please skip this chapter, and the next one.**

**2\. You might find this chapter decadent (as a wise woman once called scenes like this) and a bit indulgent on my part, and that's fair enough. However, I really, **_**really**_** want to do justice to their long-suffering passion, which is bound to be explosive and (sorry) perhaps messy, however you might interpret that. It does not deserve to be glossed over. I thought about doing a "and then they had a mad tryst, and life was good…" sort of thing, but it honestly felt wrong.**

**3\. I rather like the idea that the two of them are stumbling just a bit, in finding their groove together. Most especially Aziraphale, and Crowley stumbles in a different way. I find it very real (as much as any of this could be "real").**

**Stay tuned for more thoughts at the end, because this chapter is the first of two fleshy, steamy scenes, and these two characters have brought out the analytical side of me.**

* * *

**When we last saw Crowley, he was admiring his angel from across the room, and marvelling at the latter's intellectual prowess, and some of the physicality that goes with it… and the fact that they now have a physical relationship, and he doesn't have to hold back anymore! He had set aside his drink and stood up... with purpose.**

**Enjoyyyyyyy!**

* * *

THIRTEEN

Aziraphale was taken off-guard. Suddenly, there was Crowley, standing incredibly close, smelling incredibly enticing, with an incredibly predatory look on his face. His golden eyes blazed with _intent._ The angel's cheeks flushed with colour, and he gasped slightly.

"Tell me, angel, are these shelves bolted to the floor?" asked the demon, his voice low and secretive, his gaze sliding up and down the volumes, the way a hand slides over the shiny hood of a freshly waxed car.

"Y-yes," Aziraphale answered. "Erm… why?"

In lieu of an answer, Crowley took the cumbersome book out of Aziraphale's hands, and tossed it (open) on top of a pile of other volumes they'd been working on. Without warning, Aziraphale found himself stumbling backwards, caught by the sturdy shelf. The back of his head was pressed against a row of leather-bound tomes, and Crowley's tongue was in his mouth. He let out a monosyllabic tone of surprise, then a breathy groan of resignation and pleasure.

Last night, he had learned why _this _was something that humans sought, sometimes at the expense of other important things. In this moment, he was learning how someone could almost literally _drop everything_ and be, on a moment's notice, entrenched within a lover, embroiled in their own body, and someone else's. It was all coming home to roost right here, right now. He was not at all sure that they _should_ be doing anything of this sort, because he hadn't fully abandoned the idea that the prophecies might be telling them to slow down. But the knowledge of what was in store - _carnal knowledge, _one might call it - how good it could feel, and that in the coming minutes, he would feel as though everything in the world was falling away except for the two of them, and their love, and pleasure, and that poignant _release_ that came with it, that he had just learned about…

… oh dear.

He'd been reading something. Hadn't he?

Something about truth, empires, cousins, was it? But his mind was mush now. Crowley had, in one swift movement, unravelled whatever intellectual hold he had on the moment and the immediate world around them, and activated all of his functions of desire. And as the angel had reported earlier in the day, all of _those_ belonged to the demon.

He tried, though. He pushed gently, and Crowley withdrew slightly. "Oh Crowley, we're right in the middle of…"

"No, we've only just begun, and we're not going to finish with the prophecies tonight, or anytime this decade."

"Yes, but…" Aziraphale was interrupted by a serpentine arm curling around his waist.

"Shut up, and let me kiss you."

And all the angel could do was kiss back, push against Crowley's tongue with his own, to suck at it with wet, eager lips, and grasp at the charcoal grey lapels with both hands.

This went on until both were breathless. At last, Crowley pulled away, in order to study the rouged cheeks and heaving chest of his breathtaking angel. He hung both hands on a shelf on either side of Aziraphale's head, and propped one foot upon a shelf at knee-level. It was a stance that signified possession, an overwhelmingly strong gesture that Aziraphale wouldn't have known how to argue with, even if he'd wanted to.

"Do you know what I realised a few minutes ago, angel?" Crowley growled.

"W-what would that be?" Aziraphale whispered, eyes droopy, a bit mesmerised.

Crowley smiled wickedly. "You're mine," he hissed. "After all this time, I had to remind myself of it. But there it is. And it's so bloody sweet."

"I've always been yours," the angel said, almost pained, with his eyes shut.

"Not like this," Crowley purred, pressing his pelvis forward, and his mouth millimetres from the angel's ear. A raging erection betrayed itself against Aziraphale's abdomen, and a reptilian tongue teased at his earlobe. "You're mine for the _taking_ now, not just a partner in some cerebral tango we've been dancing for six thousand years."

"Taking… yes," Aziraphale mused, just barely.

"And do you know what else I realised, angel?"

"What?"

"I'm yours, too," the demon whispered, tugging at the bowtie knotted at Aziraphale's throat. He pulled it loose, then undid the top button of the starched shirt.

"You are," Aziraphale agreed, again, just barely musing the words.

"Whatever hope I might have held, that I could ever walk away from you, well, it died with the Apocalypse," Crowley told him, pushing his collar aside, and kissing the heated flesh underneath, lips, tongue and teeth.

For a few moments, Aziraphale seemed speechless. He breathed out, and enjoyed the sensations now crawling through his body like vibrating vines. He marvelled at the amazing, not-so-evil creature now drawing forth in him a warm tirade of _want_. He couldn't help but be bombarded by sense memories of last time... things said, things felt...

"Crowley?"

"Yes, love?" the demon whispered.

"If I'm yours for the, erm, _taking_, and... you're mine, then…" Aziraphale gulped hard.

"Yes?" Crowley asked, sick with curiosity and anticipation of what his lover might say.

"Does that mean that I can make requests?"

"Are you going to ask me to stop, and return to the fucking prophecies?" Crowley asked, teeth clenched.

Aziraphale's head lolled back against the books, and he swallowed hard. "No," he breathed. "I'm fairly certain I've forgotten how to read for the time being."

Crowley chuckled, nipping at Aziraphale's neck, taking advantage of the exposed flesh. He was now unfastening the fussy velveteen waistcoat, keeping him from even more angelic flesh. "Mmmm," he moaned, pressing his hardness with more force against Aziraphale's body. "So you'd like to make a request, eh? You know what you want. Good for you, angel. You're a fast learner."

"There's something you said last night, that keeps echoing in my mind," the angel said, with a tremulous voice. "You said it when when you… erm…"

"Had my hand slipping back and forth over your cock?" Crowley asked cheekily winking as he pushed the angel's jacket and waistcoat back over his shoulders and down his arms.

Aziraphale was now shrugging out of said clothing, blushing, and frowning a bit. "Well, that's… very vivid language."

"When I was stroking you off?"

Aziraphale let out a heavy breath, as though the words had punched him in the gut. "Oh my, y-yes."

Crowley began working on the rest of the buttons of the angel's shirt, delighting in watching him stutter and unravel a bit, at hearing the explicit descriptions roll off his reptilian tongue. "When we were both on the verge of spurting come all over each other?"

Aziraphale's eyes closed, and once again, his head rolled back against the books. "Oh, Crowley," he groaned. "You speak like a fiend."

"Mm-hm. _Fiendish_ is my native language," the demon agreed, finishing the shirt's front buttons, and taking hold of one hand so has to unbutton the cuff. "Should I stop?"

"No," Aziraphale breathed, as Crowley unbuttoned the other cuff. "If my body's responses are to be believed, then I find that I rather like it."

"Yeah? So what fiendish thing did I say last night that's got you all hot and blushy today?" the demon asked, helping the angel out of his shirt.

"It was something you said you wanted to do to me." Aziraphale's voice was shy, tentative.

Crowley smiled. "Ahhh, yes. I said I want to taste you everywhere," he said, discarding the shirt on the floor.

"Yes."

"Well, I do want to."

"Then… will you do it, please?"

"You want me to put my mouth all over you, angel?" Crowley's lips and tongue were at work along the angel's shoulders.

"Yes."

"Shall I finish your shoulders, then move down your chest and hips?"

"Yes, Crowley."

"Shall I spin my tongue in circles on the insides of your thighs?"

"Oh, yes."

"And what else, angel?"

"I…"

"Tell me," Crowley urged. "Where are we going with this, Aziraphale? We both know what you're really asking for, so say it."

"I-I'd like... erm…"

Crowley forgot for a few moments to hedge away from the coarseness that came naturally to him. "You said you like the filthy words, so tell me you want me to suck your cock."

"I do want that," Aziraphale whimpered.

"You want to make _requests?_ You like the dirty talk? Two birds, one stone, angel. Order me to my knees, and tell me to fill up my mouth."

"Oh… oh, dear. I… don't think I can say that, Crowley. Not yet. Not…" Aziraphale insisted, his voice trembling.

"Okay, okay…" Crowley relented, the burgeoning roughness pierced by the worry in his lover's voice. "I'm sorry. Too much, too soon."

He leaned forward and gave the angel a sweet kiss on the mouth.

"Someday… I hope not too long from now…" Aziraphale began.

"Sshh, it's okay. I know you can't be pushed. I know it well, been telling myself for centuries – I don't know what came over me." Mentally, Crowley tried to wrest himself back in check. He took a deep breath, and said, "For now, how about I be the demon, and you be the angel?"

"I think that would do nicely."

"I'll do something a bit wicked, and you can be all adorable and innocent. You can act appalled, if you'd like – that might be fun."

Aziraphale smiled softly, and said, "I'd rather be enthralled."

"That's good, too."

Crowley continued to kiss and lick all the way across Aziraphale's shoulders, from one end to the other, over the collar bone, over the bobbing Adam's apple, hands grasping at the gently, unconsciously gyrating hips. Aziraphale's hands braced behind him on a bookshelf, and he tried his best to be in the moment, keep his breathing even, and not to collapse at the knees from the intensity of it.

Crowley bent, and moved down over the soft, sparsely hairy chest, licking patches of flesh, and relishing in hearing the rough, quick intake of air it caused. He was making his way down to a kneeling position, and actually couldn't wait to get there…

…he also knew that he had to explore every inch of flesh between the angel's chin and waist first.

But it was only a minute before Crowley did slip to his knees - he couldn't help himself. And when he settled there, he looked up and found his companion looking back with fascination. Never breaking eye-contact, the demon unhooked and unzipped the bulging brown Glen-tartan trousers in front of him, and grasped at its waistband, and that of the fine linen undergarments behind it. He pulled down, bunching the clothes at the knees.

"Do you want to step out of them, or shall I just…" Crowley asked, showing Aziraphale his thumb and middle finger pressed together, ready to snap.

Aziraphale himself snapped, and suddenly the entire ensemble he'd been wearing was now neatly folded on his desk chair, with the shoes sitting atop.

His cock was now standing totally erect, right at eye-level to Crowley, who ignored it for the moment, and pressed his cheek and mouth against a trembling thigh. Crowley moaned a bit at the feel of this warm, angelic body, its scent, its subtle quivers. His tongue then ventured out of his mouth once more, and caressed the skin where torso meets leg. Aziraphale took in a sharp breath at being licked in places he had never contemplated, and gave a good moan himself at feeling a wet, lusty tongue moving down his thigh in circles. He struggled to remain on his feet, and not to squirm too much, but it was so hard not to twist and swoon…

Crowley's hand then found Aziraphale's inner thigh, and he pressed sideways, urging the angel to change position a bit, and allow access. Aziraphale shifted his weight, and braced himself more heavily against his left hand, allowing his right leg to crook a bit, and his inner thighs both to become reachable to a roving, reptilian tongue. The result was a breathy, instinctual appeal to the Almighty from the depths of Aziraphale's throat.

Crowley was doing what he'd expressed desire to do, in tasting his companion all over, including the inner thighs, and the only thing that was left was…

He sat back on his haunches, the position making his trousers incredibly uncomfortable. He looked up at the angel with a certain gravitas, and asked, "Are you ready?"

"I think I was ready a thousand years ago," Aziraphale heaved. "Only…"

"Yes?"

"Only, how do I…erm…"

"How do you what? You don't have to _do_ anything, angel," Crowley said. He began to stroke the backs of his partner's thighs. "Just stand there, and let the fireworks happen."

"Yes, the fireworks, but, how do I let you know when the, erm… _fireworks_ will be at their…"

"You don't have to let me know," Crowley said. "Just lose yourself. Let go. I'll be here to catch you."

"Really? But… I'll be… well, you'll be… what I'm saying is, there will be..."

Crowley smiled a bit wickedly. "Just come in my mouth, Aziraphale. What are you afraid of?"

Hearing the graphic language, again, hit the angel like a ton of bricks, and his voice jumped high. "O-oh, i-is that… normal?"

"Very normal, very hot - you'll see."

"It seems rather distasteful. Pardon the pun."

"Oh, trust me, it's not," Crowley sighed. "Can you do that - trust me?"

"Y-yes," Aziraphale responded. "You know I can."

"Good," the demon cooed, bringing his hands up to grasp the clenched, nervous bum. He gazed pointedly at the member bobbing in front of his face. "Because I'm going to make us both come so hard, we'll have to miracle ourselves upright."

And then, his lips closed over the head of Aziraphale's swollen cock, and slid forward, all the way down to the base. Suddenly, the still-skittish angel found his entire organ lodged in the mouth and throat of a demon, and his head swam. He cursed and didn't care who heard, and he felt that there must not exist any sensation in all of Creation that could even come close. No gourmet nor comfort food had ever been this good. No warm bath, no magic, no perfectly-delivered, ecstatic operatic note… nothing.

Aziraphale was too far gone to notice, but it was around this point when Crowley unfastened his own trousers, pulled his cock loose - as much out of necessity as desire - and began to stroke. He engaged one hand in this task, and the other with the angel's pleasure, planting it where Aziraphale's turgid member met his body.

The jaded, but now _captivated_ demon, tightened his mouth and began to pull back and forth, letting the deep pink, distended flesh slip back and forth over his lips and just barely down his throat. He worked at the same pace as he stroked himself. And for his part, Crowley, too, felt that nothing had ever been this good. He relished in the entire sensory experience, including the pitch-perfect sound of Aziraphale having clenched his teeth and given a low growl of, "oh, fuck!" then moaning with total abandon, upon feeling his member entrenched for the first time in warmth and wetness. He was fairly certain that the angel wasn't even aware he'd said it, which made it amusing, as well as scorching.

Whenever he moaned, Crowley couldn't help but answer it with one of his own. The whole onslaught was so crackling hot, and put-out-your-lights fantastic, the moans came of their own accord. His hand sped up on his cock, and slowed again, as he felt he needed to back down from too much all at once. If Crowley had learned nothing in his six thousand years of temptation shags, it was how to control himself, although this experience was _totally_ different from any other. Totally.

All too soon, the angel seemed to lose his balance, and his body shifted, his bum was now pressed against the shelf behind him. Crowley adjusted along with him, barely losing half a stroke either way.

"Sorry…" Aziraphale breathed. "Can't stay standing… too much. Too much…"

Crowley couldn't comment even if he cared to, because his mouth was totally full, totally occupied with bringing forth a torrent of pleasure from a flummoxed, frenzied, but very fervent angel.

"Crowley… Crowley…" Aziraphale panted as his knuckles turned white, grasping the shelf under his bum. "Is it… is it… oh, is it all right if…"

"It's all right," Crowley managed, pulling back, then re-filling his mouth. He let the angel's cock dip down his throat again, then pulled back once more. "All of it is all right."

Aziraphale groaned, and desperately buried one shaking hand in Crowley's flamboyant red hair. He found leverage in grabbing the demon's locks as hard as he dared, groaned, cursed again, and suddenly found his body giving way. His loins throbbed, and he knew that Crowley's mouth was being quite thoroughly flooded.

Crowley, in his turn, had begun to spurt over his pumping fist, and on the floor of the book shop, as soon as Aziraphale's hand had tightened on his head. He adored having his hair pulled, and the sensation, coupled with his first taste of angelic emissions, pushed him too far to hold onto his control.

Aziraphale was surprised at how long an orgasm could last, as his cock and all of the surrounding flesh throbbed and released, over and over. For several moments he simply couldn't see, and his entire body felt like an open, exposed nerve, deliciously warm and beating. He swooned a bit, once again, unsure if he could stay on his feet, but he managed…

And eventually, he let go of the hair tangled between his fingers and was able to focus his eyes and observe with fascination that nothing had escaped his lover's mouth. He shivered with lascivious wonder at the realisation that Crowley must have swallowed everything he'd given.

His mouth making a slippery wet _pop _as he released Aziraphale's temporarily spent member, Crowley finally exhaled and sat back once again on his haunches, forehead slick with sweat, all of his clothes still on, and a glazed-over look in his burning amber eyes. Aziraphale could see that he was grasping his own cock, and that his hand was strewn over with careless lines of come, and there were small pools of it on the floor between them.

"Oh dear, Crowley," Aziraphale whined.

Crowley was panting. "Don't worry, angel. It'll clean up fine, especially if we use magic."

"No, not that. It's just… well, you had to… for yourself."

Crowley smiled. "I'm hardly complaining here."

"All the same," Aziraphale said. He went to his knees to match Crowley, and to the demon's surprise, he cradled the handsome, angular face in both of his pale, angelic hands. "You said yourself, I'm a fast learner. There's no reason why I couldn't… you know, learn. To give you the same bit of ecstasy you've given me. What am I saying, _bit _of ecstasy? I mean, the same great swathes of unfathomable, mind-bending…"

"It's very early days, angel," the demon said, tucking himself back into his black vinyl trousers. "A few minutes ago, you couldn't even say the words."

"That was before I understood… this… this corner of physical experience. I'm in awe of it, in awe of you. I want to _give_ the way you do."

"Well... how could I say no to that?" Crowley whispered, and their lips met desperately.

After a few moments of greedy searching tongues and lips, Aziraphale pulled away, snapped his fingers, cleaning up the slippery mess on the carpet and Crowley's fingers, and said, "Shall we close up shop, and go home, love?"

Crowley could only nod, with a bit of drunken bewilderment.

* * *

**Okay. Wow. I hope you got lost in the moments... **

**Here are a few more thoughts:**

**1\. While writing this, it occurred to me that given the vast amount of time involved in their relationship, past and future, they _could_ go on for quite some time with Crowley just showing Aziraphale, step by step, what different "activities" feel like. But this is a) boring, and b) not something it seems like Aziraphale would abide for too long, being a creature of love and generosity. He'd want to be as much of a partner to Crowley as he could, and so...**

**2\. It honestly felt RIGHT to keep going with the sexy happenings, for one more scene. This story is as much about two men discovering what it means to be in a relationship with each other, as it is about a possible imbroglio of Heaven, Hell, and Humanity, and the next step in their discovery, it seems to me, must be Aziraphale's learning to reciprocate. (It also seems likely that once the two of them got going, they wouldn't be able to stop for hours.) Again, I thought about writing, "And then they spent the rest of the night entangled, thus beginning Aziraphale's education as a _giver,"_ but felt it would be a disappointing cop-out, unworthy of the passion shared by this angel, and this demon. ****I realize it's fan fiction, but the goal here is not "smut," per se, but rather, a titillating, literate but beautiful, description of lovers learning to love each other. Totally pretentious, but in my mind, a lofty goal! :-)**

**Please let me know if you agree. A****s always, feedback is the lifeblood of a writer. Especially with a chapter like this, we really put ourselves out on the line! I could really use a word or two from folks who are following this story! Thanks so much for reading!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Okay, once again, this is NSFW. A couple have readers have told me recently that they would rather skip the sex scenes, so... okay! Don't read this chapter if that sort of thing isn't your cup of tea!**

* * *

**Uhhhh… I'm nervous about this chapter! It's quite explicit, and a little bit twisted, and so closely resembles gratuitous smut that it's hard to even talk about it.**

**But I say once again, I really, _really_ want to do justice to that long-suffering, pent-up passion - it is absolutely a story that deserves to be told! And I'm nowhere near done telling it. This pair of corporeal beings are learning how to love each other, and to me, steamy as they are, these scenes are about learning to be _partners, _rather than being "about sex." You can tell by the way they trip over things.**

**As such, as I said before, I realize it's fan fiction, but the goal here is not "smut," but rather, a titillating, literate, beautiful, description of lovers learning to lean into the physical aspect of their relationship. The story itself has been just as much about this, as it has a possible coming war!**

**Please, please enjoy! :-)**

* * *

FOURTEEN

In a rare book shop in Soho, one that had seen many a forbidden confab between an angel and a demon, the air had changed. It was heavy this evening, with sweat, with love, with the thick, desirous exhalations of said angel and said demon.

The two of them knelt face-to-face beside a bookshelf. The angel's clothing, rather than on his body, was folded neatly on a chair nearby. The demon's kit was just as he had arranged it this morning, as usual hugging his body somewhat tightly, and flattering his long, lithe form. Except, one key appendage had escaped its confines.

And most importantly, Aziraphale had been shocked into a new stage of corporeal awareness.

"You said yourself, I'm a fast learner. There's no reason why I couldn't… you know, learn," he was saying. "To give you the same bit of ecstasy you've given me. What am I saying, _bit _of ecstasy? I mean, the same great swathes of unfathomable, mind-bending…"

"It's very early days, angel," Crowley said, tucking himself back into his black vinyl trousers. "A few minutes ago, you couldn't even say the words."

"That was before I understood… this… this corner of physical experience. I'm in awe of it, in awe of you. I want to _give_ the way you do."

"How could I say no to that?" Crowley whispered, and their lips met desperately.

After a few moments of greedy searching tongues and lips, Aziraphale pulled away, and said, "Shall we close up shop, and go home, love?"

Crowley could only nod, with a bit of drunken bewilderment.

* * *

Aziraphale climbed back into his clothes, as one does, and the two of them travelled back to the flat almost wordlessly. Likewise, they parked the Bentley, then rode up in the lift, without making any conversation more significant than about Suzy Fly, their neighbours' Papillon-Corgi mix. She'd been yapping rather unabashedly lately, and her owners were hard of hearing. Fortunately, angels and demons have the power to command their surroundings, so they'd been able to shut out the noise.

Crowley entered the flat first, and Aziraphale followed. When the door was shut, Crowley grabbed the other's hand, and the two of them walked toward the bedrooms. When it came time to decide which one, naturally, they turned left, and entered Crowley's stylish, dark, spacious chamber. He shut the door, then snapped his fingers, and with that, the television disappeared from the wall, eliminating (mostly) the possibility that they'd be surprised by any agents of Hell (or Heaven).

By this time, the sun was going down on London, and Crowley waved his arm downward, thus closing the plantation shutters for the night, and at the same time, lighting the teardrop-shaped fixtures, dimming them to candlelight-like perfection.

"All right, Crowley, I'm here to learn," Aziraphale said, enthusiastically. He'd said it as though he'd turned up in order to be shown the Dewey Decimal System, not how to give explosive, unholy pleasure to a demon.

"Oh, come on, Aziraphale," Crowley whined. "Tone it down, would you? What do you think this is, a quilting symposium?"

"No, no," Aziraphale insisted, frowning, shaking his head. "Those are lethally dull."

Crowley smirked, and aggressively peeled off his jacket, tossing it to the floor. "You used to like them."

He kicked off his boots (with a little help from magic) threw his glasses off, pulled his loose-fitting, snakeskin tie away, and tossed it to the floor as well. It was all in an almost _stylish_ heap on the floor.

Aziraphale watched him, half with shock, and half with lusty interest. His voice came out low and breathy, when he said, "All right then. Tell me what to do. Teach me."

Whilst unbuttoning his own silk shirt, Crowley sauntered up close, and very softly said, "Okay, then. Learn, you shall. Oh, but... I think my language could get right filthy. Okay with that?"

Aziraphale smiled tightly, in the way that he does, just as the slinky black garment hit the floor. "I think we've already established that I don't mind that."

For the second time that evening, Crowley reached up and tugged Aziraphale's bowtie loose. "Indeed, angel. All I'm saying is, if you want to learn what _really_ flips my ship – and you do, right?"

"Oh, my, yes," the angel breathed.

"Well, then, I'm not going to hold back from saying whatever nasty thing pops into my head," the demon said, snapping the pesky tartan piece of cloth away.

"I wouldn't hear of it," Aziraphale responded. "I mean… I wouldn't hear of you holding back. Not…"

"I've waited a long time to do this when I'm not playing a role, or trying to manipulate someone. This, with you… it has all been quite a coup for me. I'm not sure if I've made that clear to you." Crowley was once again undoing his companion's waistcoat.

"You ought to be able to say whatever you'd like, now that you've no agenda," Aziraphale told him, sincerely. "I would imagine you held yourself in check for centuries just as I did, only in a different way."

Crowley nodded, then snapped his fingers, and Aziraphale's waistcoat and jacket literally flew off his body and landed draped over the doorknob. "In my line of work, it's all been about the other person. Been bloody difficult to get what I really want. Not impossible, just rare."

"Then let me be the first to give it to you, for the sake of _you_," the angel said, with lips pursed rather enticingly. "Tell me what… _flips your ship_."

"Okay – you asked for it," Crowley said with his eyes atwinkle, and barely moving his lips. He took a deep breath, then, "I'll be honest with you, angel: part of making my ship flip would be hearing _you_ say a few choice things as well."

"All right…" Aziraphale said, tentatively.

"I know I pushed too hard before, to get you to talk, so I'm just, you know… floating the idea," Crowley told him, now going for the stuffy starched shirt's buttons. "Putting it out there. Work up to it, Aziraphale. It doesn't have to be tonight."

Aziraphale nodded nervously, and while finishing the last few buttons, Crowley leaned forward and caught the angel's lips with his own. The mouths writhed together for a few moments until the shirt was undone, then it hit the floor as well.

"You said last night," Aziraphale began, again, rather tentatively. "There are acts that you consider to be _advanced flying_."

"Yes," Crowley conceded. He now unzipped his trousers, and reached inside, began rubbing himself a bit. "I still say it's early days for that. Although, the thought of it is… well…"

"All right. I must admit, I agree, even though I want… I want to be… for you…"

"Well, I quite fancy what you said in the book shop."

"Oh. Which part?" He was now intently watching Crowley's hand, invisible inside his vinyl trousers, moving slowly up and down. Aziraphale now had the urge to do the same thing himself…

"The bit about _this corner of physical experience,_" Crowley said, sensually. "_Unfathomable, mind-bending,_ and you want to _give _the way I do. The way I _did_, for you – _to you – _against the bookshelf." He closed his eyes and bit his lip, whilst he fondled himself, thinking of those moments.

"Yes."

"Which means you'll be spending some time on your knees, angel."

"Yes."

"So do it."

"Do it?"

"Get on your knees."

Aziraphale obeyed.

Crowley stepped forward and pressed the angelic face sideways against the front of his hip, almost in an embrace. He sighed with contentment as he continued to stroke himself, and Aziraphale gave a little groan, at the smell of the vinyl and sweat, and of having so vividly close a view of this bit of Crowley. Aziraphale's hands went to the backs of the vinyl-clad thighs, and he closed his eyes to take in all of the sensations.

Crowley's fingers rifled through his hair a few times, which felt gorgeous, and made him fall into the moment even more.

"Do you like watching me rub my cock?" the demon asked.

"Mmmmm…" Aziraphale moaned in assent, opening his eyes again, only to see more vigorous stroking.

"I like you watching. And I bloody _love_ the feel of your hair, your head, pressed to my groin. But you know what? It's not enough."

"How so, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, dutifully.

Crowley pulled his cock loose in one deft motion, and suddenly it bobbed there, right in front of the angel's face.

"It has to be _you_, angel," he responded. "Stroke it for me."

Aziraphale took it shyly in his palm, then wrapped all of his fingers around it staring at the swollen head, as though mesmerised. This alone caused Crowley to exhale raggedly, and throw his eyes up to the ceiling to cope. When the angel's hand slipped forward gently, then back, then repeated the action, Crowley pulled in a hiss of air, and let out, "Fuck!" as though it were glass shattering.

"Good?" asked Aziraphale.

"Very good. Only grip tighter."

Aziraphale obeyed. "Like this?"

Crowley's fingertips dug into the other's shoulders, and he answered, "_Just_ like that. Rub it, angel, nice and tight, nice and slow…" He closed his eyes and winced, then after a few more beats, he opened his eyes. "Kiss the head, Aziraphale."

The angel looked up at him and stared, as he pursed his lips and planted a brief, lovely kiss on the purple, mushroomed head of Crowley's cock.

The demon ordered him to do it again, and he was obliged.

"Oh, that looks so fucking hot," Crowley groaned. "My cock and your lips… mmm, in fact, do you see any wet drops leaking out, angel?"

"Y-yes."

"Rub it all over your mouth like it's lipstick."

Once again, Aziraphale kept eye-contact, and obeyed. He planted a wet kiss on the underside of the head, and then traced round his open mouth with the tip, to his delight, spreading the slippery clear liquid all over, and thus producing more. Aziraphale couldn't help but run the demon's suffering member round his mouth a few more times, and watch the yellow eyes gloss over with pleasure, then begin to blaze with intensity.

Eventually, Crowley's hips began to push forward again and again, he groaned, and caught himself gripping Aziraphale's head…

And he realised he'd have to say something, otherwise…

"Stop, stop," he practically whimpered. "If you don't stop, I'm going to come all over your face."

Aziraphale pulled away, and not for the first time that day, he was struck lasciviously by Crowley's coarse language. "Oh, my," he groaned, but not with surprise, or appal. He sat back on his heels, closed his eyes momentarily, and then for a few seconds, his hand went to the bulge in the front of his impeccably-tailored trousers. He, too, rubbed himself… then he realised what he was doing, and stopped.

"Told you," Crowley said, watching him with wicked delight. "Some language may not be suitable for perfect angels."

"Then it's a good job I'm an imperfect one," Aziraphale responded crisply.

"Blimey, this is going to be tougher than I thought."

"Tougher how?"

Crowley smiled, and caressed the angel's hair, cheek and chin. "Having you here on your knees is… well, just the sight of it… I don't think I can tolerate it. The thought of it makes me want to just..." And he found that he couldn't finish the sentence, because he didn't know how. He wanted to consume and possess, as much as he wanted to love him.

"Well, if you… erm, _come_ too soon, I can make you hard again. I'm sure of it."

Crowley smiled. "I'm sure of it, too. And oi – language! A definite step in the right direction, angel."

"I find that I'm a bit drunk with lust, and it's making me bold," Aziraphale said, getting back up on his knees, and gripping Crowley's cock once again.

"Whoa… careful…" the demon groaned, still feeling a bit hair-trigger. But Aziraphale stroked, watching his partner's face, and he noticed it relax.

"Oh, now," the angel scolded. "What are you thinking about? Holy water? Hastur? The fourteenth century?"

"All of the above," Crowley mused.

"Think about _me_, Crowley," the angel urged. "Not about things that make your blood run cold."

"Oh, Aziraphale…"

"I came here to learn how to, as you say, flip your ship," Aziraphale protested, stroking more strongly now. "I came here because you did something to me in the book shop, and it was so mind-numbingly pleasurable, my vision will blur when I think about it, for at least a century or two. And I want to give that right back!"

"I know…" Crowley breathed. "But now that I'm in it up to my neck… I… I'm a little afraid."

"Of what, love?"

"That you'll be… that I'll repel you."

"You could never do that," Aziraphale assured him, though he did understand what the demon meant. He leaned forward and gave the head of Crowley's cock another warm kiss, and continued to pump with one hand.

"I thought I could do this," Crowley growled, wincing a bit. "But angel, if you knew…"

"I do know," Aziraphale lulled. "You're a demon. You're a fiend. You've been doing this for six thousand years, and you've got a bit twisted. Perhaps more than a bit. Your tastes run dark, some of what turns you on might scare me. It's possibly why you might have thought you should just be the one to pleasure _me _for the time being."

"Yes. Yes," Crowley conceded, still breathless.

"This is not a surprise, and in the years ahead, we'll explore all of it, all right?"

"Okay," Crowley said, with some measure of relief, and astonishment, still concentrating on keeping his body under control.

Aziraphale stopped what he was doing and sat back again. "You don't have to unleash all of your unholy lusts upon me straight away. In fact, I'd rather prefer it if you didn't. You said yourself it's too early to do anything too_ advanced_. So tonight, can you just tell me how to give you a chuffing amazing blow job? One that will cause you to feel fireworks and prickles and see stars, and forget your own name, then melt into the floor, like the one you gave me?"

A wave of lust came over the demon. "You know those words? I mean, you know what it's called?"

_"Blow job? _Of course. I haven't had my ears closed for the last hundred years, contrary to what you might think."

"I loved hearing you say it. I want to hear more."

Aziraphale set his jaw hard, narrowed his eyes, and took a nervously determined breath. He was glad that lust had emboldened him a bit. "You want... _you _want. I see. Well, let me tell you what _I _want, Crowley. I want jets of your come sliding down my throat, as soon as fucking possible. So just tell me what I have to do to get it!"

For a few moments, Crowley was so stunned, he couldn't speak. Then his eyes blazed again, a fresh wave of that same _want _washed over his already tightly-coiled body, and he said, "Put it in your mouth, and suck it. Lips tight, eyes on mine, plenty of spit, angel, and plenty of moaning. That'll do for the moment."

Aziraphale's dutifully engulfed the hard-as-rock, demonic member with his mouth. The sensation was so titillating, he couldn't help but moan as asked. Crowley moaned back, then looked down, searching for the angel's eyes. Aziraphale turned them upwards, pulled his lips tight, and began pulling back and forth, over and over, with long, slow strokes. He moaned again and again, struggling, at times, to keep his eyes open, against the onslaught of lust and drunkenness. But he saw every twitch of Crowley's face, watched and heard every crackling grunt.

"Next level, angel," Crowley groaned. "Teeth. Use some teeth."

The angel resisted the urge to ask if he was sure, and he carefully, lightly bit down on the distended piece of flesh, closed his lips taut once again, and continued what he'd been doing… rhythmic, in and out, moaning, always moaning.

"More," Crowley ordered. "Harder."

Aziraphale gave ever so slightly more pressure with his teeth, and continued.

"No, even more than that, angel," Crowley demanded, with his own teeth gritted hard. "Make it hurt, do you hear me?"

Intentionally hurting anyone was against every instinct in Aziraphale's body. But then, just about every sensation he was currently feeling was _against _the natural order of his angelic form.

He forced himself to grip tighter with his jaw, and his teeth scraped hard along Crowley's diamond-solid cock, and the demon groaned deeply as he did so, and spat out the words, "_That's _how you do it, angel."

Aziraphale repeated what he'd done, and was rewarded with another deep, sinister groan, and a few exciting expletives.

Crowley then engaged his hands at his hips, and began pushing his trousers down toward his thighs. Aziraphale raised his hand and prepared to snap the pesky garment away, but Crowley stopped him, and let the vinyl hug his thighs rather tightly.

"You want them like that?" Aziraphale asked, pulling momentarily away.

"Mm-hm," Crowley answered. One of his hands now cupped his balls. "Now squeeze."

Once again, Aziraphale obeyed. Then, the demon demanded, "No, _squeeze them_. Hurt me, goddamn it! And don't stop sucking my cock, angel. You wanted a throatful of come, and I'm going to give it to you!"

Aziraphale could not imagine how this could feel good, but he indulged the demand, and squeezed forcefully, then raked his teeth firmly over the demonic member, lodging the head near his throat. When he pulled back again, Crowley groaned as though he'd just been punched in the gut in slow-motion, and he hissed the word, "Twist!"

Aziraphale gave a twist of the wrist, and listened to another unhinged groan of pure, unfettered hedonism escape from Crowley's mouth.

He continued to do as asked, stroke after stroke, back and forth with teeth clenched, and Crowley's testicles twisted in-hand. The demon's outbursts became strained, pained, noisy, and foul-mouthed. It was the most exciting moment of Aziraphale's life thus far…

And then, he felt Crowley's hands gripping both of his jaws, and the force of the head of his cock hitting the back of Aziraphale's throat strengthened. He realised that Crowley was now thrusting, and everything intensified...

Anticipating one's own orgasm, the angel now knew, was one thing - and it was _quite _a thing. Anticipating another's was so much more thrilling, so much more exhilarating! Any moment now, at his hands (so to speak), the creature he loved more than anything in this universe was about to experience sizzling, burning pleasure, a big blast of a release, that he hoped would cause blurred vision, buzzing in fingers and toes, a total warm wash all over the demon's body. And giving him that was more important, in this moment, than any blessing or miracle he'd ever done. The singeing, smouldering decadence of love… such a _coup_, as Crowley had put it. Such a miracle unto itself!

Still grinding his teeth, Crowley managed to croak out, "Oh angel, here I fucking come!"

Suddenly, Aziraphale felt both of Crowley's hands grip tighter, then grab onto his ears. He heard "Shit!" shouted from above, and his mouth began to fill. He could feel Crowley's body spasming and throbbing, and with each one, there was a short surge which the angel impulsively, and quite voraciously, swallowed. One after another after another… more pleasure, more groans of release, more filthy words, more moans from Aziraphale…

It was eye-crossing for Crowley. This thing he'd shown Aziraphale how to do was a combination of things he'd fancied over the years, but had never achieved all at once. It would never have occurred to him to try and _only _have the maximum indulgence before now; he'd never had anyone there just to _give. _Just for him. The entire effect was gorgeous. Overwhelming.

He wished he could watch himself come, and could watch the look on Aziraphale's face as his mouth filled up, and he swallowed for the first time, but alas, the effect of this perfect liaison was too much. He wasn't able to see _anything_ as the pleasure shot out of him, through his exquisite partner's waiting lips.

And at some point just after Aziraphale began to swallow everything he could catch, his body spasmed unexpectedly and his hand went instinctively to his groin. He was coming inside his trousers, rubbing the outline of his cock, feeling delicious release as the creamy liquid slid down this throat, and satisfaction became complete.

A wet spot began to form at the front of his trousers, but he didn't notice. Crowley did, and it thrilled him.

And for a few moments, the two of them just stared at each other in a state of shock.

* * *

**So, what do you think? Please leave a review to let me know... I'm drowning in a sea of silent readers! *gurgle gurgle***

**Honestly, though, a chapter like this is a risk. I'm interested in your observations.**

**Thank you for reading!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Well... ahem. Chapter 14 was bracing, wasn't it? Whoo.**

**For the moment, we are finished with the "physical" aspect of their relationship development, so if you are at work, or are uninterested in M-rated chapters, it is safe to proceed for a chapter or two now. :-) But there is at least one more steamy chapter on the horizon... another one I won't be able to gloss over, given the turn things are going to take in chapters 15 and 16. **

**Anyway, let's just call this the calm before yet another storm. I hope you find it sweet, a little aggravating, and ultimately worth it. Enjoy!**

* * *

FIFTEEN

Yet again, Crowley and Aziraphale spent a night like none other.

They decided to call their carnal activities well-enough for now, each put on some combination of underwear and pyjama, prepared a fruit/cheese/charcuterie/bread plate, and brought it into the large, dark bedroom, along with yet more wine, not bothering with glasses. They shut out the world, and had a late supper whilst lounging on the bed, talking.

Eventually, they set aside the plate and lay back on pillows stacked against the headboard, sharing the bottle (actually several bottles), occasionally holding hands, and talking about everything under the sun.

This included, "I've been meaning to ask, have you noticed the plants down the back hallway are drooping?" from Aziraphale.

"Are they? I guess I've been too _happy_ to threaten them lately."

"You _threaten_ them?"

"Erm… ehhhh… yeah," the demon awkwardly confessed.

"Crowley!"

"Well, not anymore! Not since you moved in! Doesn't that count for something? Now, I just, you know, mist them from time to time."

"I suppose so, but… why don't you let _me _take care of the plants from now on?"

"No," Crowley sighed. "I'll get them greening again. Without using the waste disposal."

Aziraphale coughed on the wine he'd been drinking. "The waste… you use the… the one in the sink?"

"Only when they're naughty. And can _you_ think of a clearer way to send a message to the others?"

"Oh Crowley! Oh… oh, no, no, no. This is a disaster!" Aziraphale whined.

"No, it's not. I'll _nurse_ them back to health. And I'll be _nice_, okay?"

"Nice? Did you just say, you'll be _nice_?"

"Yes," Crowley groaned, rolling his marble-like eyes. "Ugh, don't make me say it again!"

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale mooned.

"They're just plants. I wish you'd stop being all..."

"Angelic?"

"Er…"

"Do you _promise_ you'll deal with them, _without_ resorting to being a…"

"Demon?"

"Well…"

"Yeah," Crowley pouted. "I promise."

Their conversation also included some fairly frank commentary on things they had done earlier this evening in the book shop, and there in Crowley's bedroom (commentary which _almost_ led them back into it). Both had found it pleasant to say the least, both were ecstatic about the trajectory the relationship was taking. Each was grateful that the other was so keen to do whatever it took to coax out explosions of the highest order. But Crowley admitted that he had gone from thinking that their having a sexual relationship would be a lovely, rich, decadent piece of cake, if Aziraphale could just lean into it, to realising that there might be a learning curve involved for _both_ of them.

But there was further talk, too, of prophecies and the coming war.

"Crowley, there's been a revelation nagging at me… I've been reluctant to mention it."

"Why reluctant?"

"Because I know how you'll react to it."

"Oh, shit," Crowley groaned, before taking a bracing swig off the wine bottle.

"I think you'll probably tell me to go jump in a lake, the way you did when I said we should confess to our respective former head-offices regarding the body-swap," Aziraphale sighed.

"I would never tell you to jump in a lake."

"You know what I mean. You asked _why the living fuck_ we would do a thing like that, and then you shot me down…"

"Well, you're brilliant, angel, but that was not a brilliant idea, sorry to say."

"Fine. Accepted."

"What _brilliant_ idea has been nagging at you now?"

"What if the two of us were to do whatever penance was necessary, and go back into the fold," Aziraphale said, tentatively.

"What if? We'd be cast out and killed, that's what."

"But that's I'm saying. What if we did whatever was necessary to gain forgiveness, so as _not_ to be cast out and killed, and for a time, went back to the way things were."

Crowley sat up straight and looked at his companion with incredulous, burning golden eyes.

"_The way things were?_" he growled. "Are you _fucking_ kidding me? _The way things were?_ How could you even… I mean, how could you…"

Aziraphale now sat up straight too. "Not _the way things were _with us. Not necessarily. I wouldn't want that… not now. No, I mean, I work for Heaven again, and you work for Hell again. We do what they ask. We see each other clandestinely, like we've always done. _Very_ clandestinely. We would have to be incredibly careful to keep up the appearance that I'm just living and working in Soho, minding my own business, and that you're living here, and doing whatever it is you do. Scaring the droop out of your plants and whatnot."

"But all the while we'd be… what? Canoodling each other, somehow out of sight of Michael's surveillance? Like she wouldn't check all the bloody time and what am I talking about anyway? Why would we go back into the fold, Aziraphale? We were slaves for six thousand years, and _finally_ have a bit of freedom! I can't understand you!"

"Listen, if you and I are back in the fold, and working from the inside, we might have a chance at stopping this thing. This... coming war, or whatever it is."

"Why, because it went so smoothly before?"

"Things have changed, haven't they? Heaven can be convinced, and Hell can be manipulated. We know how paranoid they all are now. I think you and I could talk them down from launching a war against the humans!"

"And what if it doesn't work? We find ourselves in line for execution again. Only, as I said before, they'd get it bloody right this time."

Aziraphale exhaled with exasperation. "We have to think of something other than ourselves, and each other."

"Not me. That's not what I'm about, angel. I don't do _selfless_."

"You're selfless with me."

"That doesn't count."

"Why not?"

"Because doing things for you is actually selfish. It's a pleasure. And it makes you happy, which makes _me _happy, and on some level, I'm also hoping it makes you, you know… agreeable. And also…" Crowley stopped then, and sort of groaned at what he seemed about to say.

"What?"

"Nothing, angel."

"No, no, you don't get to do that anymore."

Crowley pouted for a few moments, but relented. The words came out stilted, almost as though they didn't belong in the same discourse together. "Doing things for you doesn't count as selfless, because you… you're like, a part of me, aren't you? Aren't we the same _self_ in some ways?"

"Crowley…" Aziraphale breathed, shocked with emotion.

"We occupy the same space, so much of the time," Crowley continued, now muttering, reluctantly. "Sometimes metaphorically, even. If I've done something for you, I've done something for us both."

They sat and stared at each other for what might have been a half-hour, and might have been four seconds – neither of them could really tell – Aziraphale in shock, and Crowley just sort of crippled for the moment. The only thing they knew for sure was that in a set of days full of revelations, this one was no small thing.

After a while, Aziraphale reached over and took Crowley's hand. "Then do this for me, and for yourself."

Crowley flopped back against the pillow. "Ugh! I do things for you like, blessing a bishopric, making people come and see _Hamlet_, making piles and piles of crêpes that I'll never eat. Things like, being nice to my plants, and delaying my own orgasms. Things that actually feel right in the long run, even though I'm supposed to make everything feel wrong. I don't do things like, let's say, putting myself in Hell's shackles!"

"Not even to save _everything_?" Aziraphale asked, earnestly softly. He was echoing Crowley's words and manner from months earlier, when he'd tried to tempt the angel into killing an eleven-year-old boy who might bring about the End of the World.

When Crowley didn't answer for a long time, Aziraphale moved close, laid his head on the demon's chest and allowed himself to melt into the embrace. Crowley laid his arm over Aziraphale's back. "I'll think about it, okay?"

"That's all I can ask for at this stage, I suppose. Thank you, Crowley."

"Yeah."

* * *

In and out of conversation (and a bit of snogging) over the course of the night, Crowley did think about what Aziraphale had said. He contemplated, more than anything, whether _this_ could continue, if he refused to hand himself back over to the agents of Hell. He wondered whether this idyll with the angel he loved could ever be what he hoped, if he said he was unwilling to return to grovel himself back onto the infernal payroll, in order to help Aziraphale try to save humanity.

His refusal had two practical consequences, as he saw it.

One of them was, Aziraphale decided to return to Heaven's fold, one way or the other. If he did that, then Crowley might as well do likewise. This life, as they now knew it, would be over. They'd have to take their lumps, and take any and every scant opportunity to be together. They'd have to sneak about and lie to Beelzebub, Gabriel, Michael, Hastur, and everyone else… which would be nothing new, but now, would be so much harder. Part of him fancied the clandestineness and secrecy, but mostly, it sounded exhausting. And depressing.

The other consequence was, Aziraphale stayed outside the fray with him, and they go on living in this flat together, go on having untold pleasures together, go on being lovers as they were meant to. But what would the cost be? Would Aziraphale always feel guilty and beaten, anxious about being _here_, enjoying life, whilst Heaven and Hell brewed up something horrific? Would he grow sullen? Would his feelings about Crowley change, because of it? Would they continue to work on the prophecies, and find other solutions, or would Aziraphale eventually shut him out?

The demon had no illusions about the fact that the angel loved him for his bite, his individual edge, his darkness, roughness, hedonism, which was all somewhat exotic to the angel. But Aziraphale also loved him for that mitigating streak of _nice,_ without which, their friendship would have been intolerable. Or, more accurately, it would not exist. Crowley's core personality was to be mischievous rather than evil, and passionate rather than destructive. If he withdrew his _nice_, and showed zero passion for humanity, would Aziraphale be able to abide him?

He thought, most likely not.

* * *

In the past, at different times, the pair of them had gone decades upon decades without crossing paths. In the very early days, they'd go centuries, even, which now seemed, to Aziraphale, unfathomable. Since 1020 or so, very nearly a full millennium, they had not let this happen, because like it or not, they sought each other out. Things were _easier _when they were together because they could commiserate, execute their "Arrangement," and talk about the foibles of humanity, philosophise, and the job didn't seem so limiting. Plus, Crowley was someone with whom he could get drunk and be an idiot, without fear of judgement.

In the twentieth century, the longest they'd gone without seeing each other was fifteen years, between 1947 and 1962. That period had been excruciating for Aziraphale (it was during this time when he'd purchased the charcoal-coloured cashmere robe, something dark and lovely to wrap around himself, on a cold night). He didn't know exactly at what point he began to _ache_ to be with Crowley... He'd been in denial off and on so much, especially since 1941, it was impossible to pinpoint.

And he knew with absolute certainty now, he could never be away from his demon for long, ever again. And yes, that meant, Crowley's corporeal form at his side, his actual voice, life force, soul, and love. More than ever, Aziraphale craved Crowley's particular physicality.

But it also meant Crowley's brain and absurd sense of humour, problem-solving style, and personality. Life as an agent of Heaven would be insufferable (as it would have been for the first six thousand years) if he didn't have Crowley's support. He'd need someone to debrief with, someone who could relate, and not just in past tense. He'd grown accustomed to Crowley's brand of no-bullshit wisdom, as well as his brand of bullshit. He'd miss it all so much if ever he had to give it up, it didn't even bear thinking about. More importantly, he'd need an "in" on the other side of things. He wouldn't be able to convince or manipulate Heaven without knowing what Hell was up to.

But oddly, he didn't have contingencies in place. What might Crowley decide, and what would he, Aziraphale, do, either way? If the demon said "no," could Aziraphale give up "this" life, in exchange for groveling to Gabriel, and possibly saving humanity again? No way. But could he simply abandon the idea of doing the ultimate good as a full-time angel again, in order to be with Crowley?

Aziraphale had always felt a little bit caught between Crowley and his duty, but _this_ hurt. A lot. He had put himself in a position to choose between love, or the world.

* * *

Neither of them ended up falling properly asleep… although one of them managed a kip.

They talked through other solutions to the Third Domain problem, with a healthy dollop of _if only_.

"If only there were away for Gabriel to spend a millennium or two on Earth," Aziraphale sighed. "He might understand a bit better."

"All angels and all demons, regardless of rank, should have to do a tour of duty down here," Crowley agreed. "It's humbling. And equalising."

"Amen," said the angel, swigging deeply on wine.

"If only they'd accept that the three domains need each other. Good, evil, humanity. It's all a big, muddled-up colour wheel."

"Indeed. And the vast majority of all things are at the centre of the wheel, in the space that ought to be sort of… brown. A lot of other things are in the orange, green and purple spaces. Very few things are pure red, pure blue, or pure yellow. You know what I mean?" Aziraphale said, slurring his speech.

"Bizarrely, yes, I do. And I agree. Though I'm tempted to cut you off from alcohol."

They talked prophecy, history, men's fashion, and cinema…

Crowley eventually nodded off with his head in Aziraphale's lap, a little after five in the morning. The angel spied a book from across the room, lying incongruously on an armchair in the corner. He retrieved it via magic, and found that it was a French cookbook. He decided to read through it and choose a few recipes to try, as he did not want to change positions, or stir in any way, lest his companion be roused. It was unguarded, un-self-conscious closeness that he could not take for granted. This was contentment, this, and he reckoned Heaven should have a lot more moments like this in its programme.

Unfortunately, though, whenever Big Ben reached the top of the hour, its _bong_ was hearty, and loud in this flat. Ordinarily, when the noise began, Crowley would just block it out with a wave of his hand. This morning, however, it caught them both off-guard, and was loud enough to wake the demon from his nap, at precisely six a.m.

Aziraphale silenced the noise in the bedroom, but it had already startled the demon awake.

"Whoa, how long was I out?"

"Forty-five minutes, give or take," Aziraphale answered, closing his reading material and setting it aside.

"I see you found my cheat sheet," Crowley smirked, indicating the book.

"Yes," Aziraphale said, smiling. "I hope you don't mind – I dog-eared a few of the pages so we could revisit them."

"I don't mind," Crowley told him. "Ready for coffee, or shall we lounge a bit longer?"

"I'm ready to begin a new day."

"And so we shall. Kitchen, or Kiptyn's coffee house down the street? Pastries and/or bacon sammies."

"Well, I'm sold. Ah, you always know precisely the right thing to say," Aziraphale mused.

Crowley smirked again. "Almost as though it was once my job."

"Let's get dressed – see you at the front door in ten minutes."

Aziraphale took Crowley's jowls in both hands, and planted a joyful kiss on the demon's lips, before standing up from the bed. He crossed the hall to his own room and closed the door.

And Crowley couldn't stop smiling, even though he tried. He walked into the closet and put on a pair of black jeans, a charcoal grey v-neck tee-shirt, and fitted black and white pinstriped jacket. He located one of the twenty-or-so pairs of sunglasses laying around the flat, and threw them onto his face, then dug his black boots out of the pile of clothing discarded in a fit of educational passion the night before. He put them on, then snapped his fingers. With that, every garment discarded in the room, including Aziraphale's, found its way onto a hanger and into the appropriate closet, clean, and pressed.

He walked out into the foyer where Aziraphale was standing, already dressed and ready to go.

"So, I was thinking, after Kiptyn's we'll go and open up the shop, and do the next few prophecies," the angel offered.

Crowley sighed. "Yeah, I reckon that's what we ought to do. I'm going to need more alcohol, then."

"And speaking of prophecies, I thought we'd discuss again that idea that we had about…"

"Crowley!" a voice sounded from somewhere in the flat.

"Shit!" Crowley spat. "Bloody Hastur!"

"Oh good grief, what do they want now?" Aziraphale whispered.

* * *

**Awww, but ugggh! Right?**

**Anyway, please leave a review because I can't go on without your love! Honestly. :-)**

**Thank you for reading!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Happy Black Friday, everyone! I do not participate in such frivolous activities... I'd much rather spend my time "making stuff up" about our favorite supernatural duo! ;-)**

**When we last saw them, there had been some talk about them both returning to "the fold," as it were, in order to try and stop Heaven and Hell from joining forces and launching "the big one" against humanity in the next few centuries, and their morning bubble had been popped by Hastur's voice, cutting through the flat like a dull serrated knife.**

**I don't know if you're going to LIKE what he has to say, but hopefully, you'll have SOME sort of strong reaction...**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

SIXTEEN

On yet another morning like no other morning (the last month had been rife with them, it seemed, not to mention the past two days), Crowley and Aziraphale were in the midst of deciding what to do with their day – breakfast, then more research. But they were interrupted, yet again, by a voice.

"Crowley!" it sounded from somewhere in the flat.

"Shit!" Crowley spat. "Bloody Hastur!"

"Oh good grief, what do they want now?" Aziraphale whispered.

"Crowley! Oh, Crowley!" a second, crisp voice sang, like a cross-dressing cartoon rabbit, trying to lure in the unsuspecting, idiotic antagonist. "Yoo-hoo! Where are you, you yummy demon, you? And where's your little friend?"

Aziraphale made a bitter face. "Gabriel."

"Well, we both know they'll find us wherever we go," Crowley sighed, whispering. "Shall we just deal with it?"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and looked supremely annoyed, but he nodded, and motioned for Crowley to go first into the parlour.

The two of them wandered reluctantly back into the seating room where the television was. And surely enough, there were Hastur and Gabriel, seemingly sitting behind an anchor desk on BBC News. It had never occurred to either Crowley nor Aziraphale how alike the Duke and the Archangel were, but both had the thought independently. Hastur and Gabriel were both uptight, both obsessed with protocol and obedience, neither with _any _bloody clue of what _actually_ goes on in _The World_, though both thought they had a solid handle on things. If they weren't such tunnel-visioned imbeciles, they might be drinking mates. Except neither of them did that sort of thing.

"Hi guys," Crowley said, his demeanour betraying exhaustion. With them, with the whole damned ballgame.

"Gabriel," Aziraphale greeted, curtly. "Duke Hastur."

"Quite the dramatic presentation you're giving today," Crowley said. "Usurping the credibility of the BBC is truly diabolical – congrats."

"Yes, well, we've chosen this backdrop for a very good reason, Crowley," said Gabriel, with a bit too much glee. "Because we have _news_ for you. Get it?"

"Would you stop smiling like that?" Crowley complained, with a groan. "It's a bit creepy. And I'm a demon! Plus, you're sitting next to the Duke of Creepy, so… you know. It's saying something."

"He's smiling because today is a good day," Hastur said. His gaze went from Crowley to Aziraphale.

"A good day for _both_ of you?" asked Aziraphale, quite earnestly trying to force down the panic that this statement brought about.

"Oh yes," Hastur responded, silkily, practically moaning. "Not since Wet Sunday have I been this excited."

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other, and both scrunched their noses with distaste.

"That's… well, disturbing doesn't begin to cover it," Aziraphale commented, with a hint of darkness in the _jaunt _of his usual tone. This was no accident. "So then tell us, because we'd like to get on with our day. What is the news?"

Gabriel took a deep breath and announced, "Well, Aziraphale, Crowley, Heaven and Hell have collectively decided that the two of you are a larger encumbrance than merits the current return of your continued existences."

Crowley smiled, feigning a certain amused affability. "I'm sorry, Gabriel. My French is passable, and I can get by in Cantonese, but I'm afraid I don't speak Angelic Prick very well. Have you got a phrasebook we can look at?"

"It means we're more trouble than we're worth," Aziraphale said, frowning deeply.

"Indeed," Hastur growled. "You're a menace. Especially you, Crowley, you stupidly-coiffed, hip-swinging, back-stabbing, good-doing, loophole-finding…"

"Yes, yes, Duke Hastur, we get the picture," Gabriel interrupted, clearly having heard plenty of Hastur's annoyed _Crowley, Crowley, Crowley_ tirades. "The point is, effective at midnight tonight, Heaven and Hell will both be withdrawing their commodities from service on Earth."

Aziraphale looked anxiously back and forth between Crowley and the television, eyes wide with alarm. "Does that mean you're… you're… you're taking us back into the fold? Withdrawing us from Earth?"

The angel's brain began working very quickly on the implications of this, and how, perhaps he and Crowley could use it to their advantage… especially if it meant they would be kept from one another.

"No, that _can't_ be what it means," Crowley murmured.

"Indeed not," Hastur said, then he laughed.

"What, you arseholes didn't learn your lessons from… I'm sorry, I refuse to call it _Wet Sunday, _because, just…" and then Crowley shuddered exaggeratedly. "We'll call it, the Epic Fail-to-Execute Debacle? EFTED for short. What about the fact that you agreed to leave us both alone?"

"Yes, that was a consideration," Gabriel conceded. "I won't lie: we still don't know just what the fuck you are – either of you. But frankly, we don't have a desire to find out what you are, what else you can do, and what you're made of, et cetera, et cetera. It would, frankly, mean a lot of paperwork, and anyway, we want the two of you neutralised post-haste."

"Neutralised?" Aziraphale asked. "I don't like the way you said that, Gabriel."

"I don't like anything about you, Aziraphale," Gabriel retorted, like a child, imitating the posh accent with which Aziraphale spoke. "Anyhow, we feel that the best way to ultimately _leave you alone_ is to make sure that you are, in no way, part of us anymore. Aziraphale, your connection to Heaven sullies us. Having any part of your soul, your essence, your powers still rooted in Celestial channels is like… I don't know, blood-swapping with someone who has a disease."

"What?" Aziraphale asked, incredulous.

"Blood swapping?" Crowley asked. "That's not a thing."

"Okay, it's like… having a virus-riddled computer hooked up to a network," Gabriel corrected. "It puts all of the computers in the network at risk of infection."

"And you, Crowley," Hastur hissed. "Everything about you is wrong. Well, in the Hellish sense of _wrong_. You're not evil, you're a freak. You're a mutant. Your idea of wreaking havoc is replacing a football with a cantaloupe during the World Cup!"

"I never actually did that!" Crowley complained. "I just talked about it. And I have wrought _so _much more havoc than that!"

"Well…" Hastur said, awkwardly. "Metaphorically speaking. There's too much _good _in you. There's too much of _something else_, that greys the black of our underworld, and makes you the most untrustworthy demon in all of history. So I say, good-riddance, you disobedient, surface-dwelling, duty-shirking, hip-swiveling…"

"Hastur," Gabriel said, cutting him off. "Stop it. It's over."

"Fine," Hastur growled. "But the point stands."

"I still don't know what any of this means," Aziraphale told them. "You were unsuccessful at getting rid of us before, so what makes you think you can do it now?"

"Our mistake before was trying to kill you," Gabriel explained. "We tried to take your corporeal forms and destroy everything in them, which, frankly, now that the two of you are tainted, we clearly can't do. So, now, we're simply cutting our losses."

"Withdrawing your commodities," Crowley mumbled, teeth clenched.

"I still don't understand, I'm sorry," Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley turned toward him fully, and had the look of someone delivering very bad news that he knew would hurt someone he loved. "Gabriel said your soul, your essence, your powers are still rooted in Celestial channels. Your soul and your powers are _their_ commodities."

"Inasmuch as they haven't been squeezed out by whatever other Third Domain thing that's has crawled inside you," Gabriel said.

But Crowley and Aziraphale both knew that nothing else had crawled inside either one of them… except love, and humanity. They were not _tainted_ as Gabriel had said.

"You're… taking away my soul? My powers? All of my ethereal, celestial…" Aziraphale asked, softly.

"Yes," Gabriel said. "Killing you didn't work. Casting you out and causing you to _fall_ (which we also attempted) wouldn't have solved the problem of _you¸ _given the way things are. _This _will work. We're just taking back what's ours. The rest of you is on its own."

"What will happen to my Heavenly soul?"

"It will be dissipated. It will be gone. Otherwise, we'll still have to deal with you _up there, _and no-one wants that. I'm guessing, not even you. Your powers will return to the Celestial channel, and be essentially, well… recycled."

"So, I'll be discorporated."

"From your Heavenly aspect, yes."

But Aziraphale knew that he didn't actually have any other aspect. No "Third Domain" as Gabriel described it was part of him. Gabriel had no idea that he was about to kill Aziraphale… which was ironic, since the actual killing hadn't worked, but this gentler solution would.

Crowley was reading his face, and knew everything he was thinking… partly because he was having exactly the same thoughts.

"Am I to assume that the same fate will befall me?" Crowley asked Hastur.

"You are," Hastur confirmed, with a smirk. "Whatever's left of your demonic soul, your powers, your essence… it belongs to us, and we're taking it back. You're unplugged, Crowley, as of midnight. Your Infernal life is over."

Which meant, of course, _his life_ would be over. Just as Aziraphale knew that he was pure angel, despite appearances, and despite some recent events, Crowley understood that he was still pure demon. His soul and essence were not rooted anywhere but in Hell.

"Great. Thanks for the warning," Crowley murmured.

"Well, I just wanted it done," Gabriel said. He waved away the comment as though he were discussing having his front garden landscaped. "But Michael seemed to think it would be unethical not to warn you first. She felt that if we shut you out, you should have the chance to tie up loose ends, if needed."

"Indeed," Aziraphale said, swallowing hard. "Thank her for us, will you?"

"It's a bloody stupid idea," Hastur said. "Warning them of what we're doing. No telling what they'll come up with next."

"Indeed I might have agreed with you," Gabriel conceded to Hastur. "But that's not how we roll in Heaven. We give chances. We forgive."

"Oh really?" Crowley croaked, sceptically, over-the-top annoyed.

Gabriel shrugged. "I mean, not again and again totally indefinitely, especially with someone like Aziraphale whose pain-in-the-assery is truly, and spectacularly, destructive. And persistent! I'd say that last part is down to you, Crowley, to be honest, but… you know what? Tomato, to-mah-to. When one has Aziraphale under one's skin, one has you too, and vice versa, am I right? The point is, we don't pull the wool over anyone's eyes."

Crowley laughed out oud. "That's rich!"

"Anyway, Aziraphale," Gabriel continued crisply, clapping his hands together. "Thus ends our working relationship, I think. I can't say it's always been a pleasure serving with you, but neither has it been complete torture. So… that's something. Perhaps we'll meet again on the battlefield."

"Yes, perhaps. Goodbye, Gabriel," Aziraphale said with dead eyes, and a totally sunken heart.

"And Crowley," Hastur spat. "You're a knob, and I hope you die."

With that, the television blipped off, and the flat was left silent, with an angel and a demon standing stunned.

After a few moments, Crowley, still unmoving, said, "I know what you're going to say, angel, and we still can't tell them about the body-swap. It wouldn't solve anything. Either way, we're dead."

"I wasn't going to say that. In fact, I wasn't going to say anything just yet."

"Oh."

"But if I did say something, it would be…" he took a breath, and swallowed hard again. "Crowley, would you still like to have coffee and pastries with me at Kiptyn's Coffee House?"

"Really?"

"Yes."

"I'd love to."

Aziraphale took his hand, and they left through the front door, for the café down the street, just as planned.

* * *

Both ordered a sweet treat, and both ordered a coffee. But today, oddly, only Crowley partook. Not exactly voraciously, but he actually ate half of his cheese Danish, whilst contemplating the next sixteen hours. It was something to do during the deafening silence, that practically soaked into their pores.

There was one school of thought that suggested that he and Aziraphale should spend the day, the evening, and the night before their imminent discorporations, doing what they've always done… which was, essentially, what they were doing now. Sitting _à table _together, contemplating life in this universe, looking across at one another, sometimes longingly, enjoying food and drink, denying their true feelings. For so long, they put lust and conflicted love aside for the sake of friendship, a working relationship, and personal sanity. Today, they could put aside the dread, the fear, the hopelessness for the sake of one final, reassuring burst of that old camaraderie that had comforted them both so much over the years.

The other school of thought suggested, of course, that they go down in flames at midnight, whilst shagging their brains out, and become discorporated amidst the most ecstatic moments of their lives. It would give a wonderful story to tell, for whoever found their bodies.

But Crowley suddenly found himself feeling sheepish and restrained, once more. Lovers they were, but now, things had definitely changed. The end was nigh – again – and Aziraphale would undoubtedly have his own ideas about how to spend the final hours of their time on Earth… the final hours of their time anywhere.

And in this moment, a few seconds' studying Aziraphale's demeanour, things felt frighteningly familiar. The angel's face, his tight body language... Crowley _knew_ what the angel had in mind, and began to panic a little.

* * *

Aziraphale didn't eat, for once. In the past, he'd devoured Kiptyn's coffee cakes with gusto (and their bacon sammies) but today, why bother? Why bother ever again? Enjoying food on this day would only remind him of what he'd be missing… although, he wouldn't be missing it, because he'd be gone. Completely gone. His consciousness dissipated completely from existence.

So, rather, enjoying food on this day would only cause him to cling to this life. It would make him long, make him yearn…

…which brought his gaze to Crowley's handsome, but drawn, face. Their life together had only just begun, and this was clearly so unfair. But Crowley was another thing that might make him cling to this plane, to make it harder to leave.

It had happened before, of course, just about a month ago. He could have gone along with the ineffable plan, endured the Will of the Almighty and folded to Armageddon, had he not had so many creature comforts keeping him tied to this world. Crowley had pointed them all out eleven years ago, in an effort to tempt the angel into helping him stop the Apocalypse – Mozart et al, fascinating little restaurants where they know him, Châteauneuf du Pape, aged Scotch, old book shops…

But of course, the biggest creature comfort of all was Crowley himself… and the old demon knew it. He'd known it back then, of course, but neither of them had had the wherewithal at that time to acknowledge it (at least, not with words). Even before discovering what physical love could be, Crowley had been the chief factor in Aziraphale's heart and existence that had made Armageddon _impossible_ to accept.

Forty-eight hours ago, he'd been in a similar boat, when he'd thought he was to be cast out of Heaven, and fall to demonhood himself. His great fear was of the unknown, of becoming the opposite of everything he'd ever been. But he now realised, he'd have been lucky to have that happen, because at least he might have the creature comforts, including probably Crowley. Now… now…

Now, just as when Armageddon was coming to fruition, Aziraphale found that he wanted to cling. And that want hurt so badly, it made him want to run.

He was fighting the urge to tell Crowley that he felt it might be easier if they parted ways now. He was also fighting the compulsion to beg Crowley to take him somewhere, where neither Heaven nor Hell could find them. The sensation of being pulled in two directions was quite familiar, and he didn't like it one bit.

* * *

**Ugh! Poor angel, poor demon!**

**And as always, I'd like to thank you for the feedback on the previous chapter - it HONESTLY makes my day! - and also beg for more. Leave a review, let me know what you're thinking. Again, I say, no fair lurking! ;-)**

**Thank you for reading!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Well, once again our pair has received rather dire news. Ugh, now what?**

**Get ready for some very sappy angel/demon romance-and-doom!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

SEVENTEEN

They were at Kiptyn's Coffee House with pastries and coffee, and yet, Aziraphale was not eating. With discorporation and subsequent dissipation of his soul imminent, why bother? Why bother ever again? Enjoying food on this day would only cause him to cling to this life. It would make him long, make him yearn…

Crowley was, of course, another thing that might make him cling to this plane, to make it harder to leave.

Forty-eight hours ago, he'd been in a similar boat, when he'd thought he was to be cast out of Heaven, and fall to demonhood himself. His great fear was of the unknown, of becoming the opposite of everything he'd ever been. But he now realised, he'd have been lucky to have that happen, because at least he might have the creature comforts, including probably Crowley. Now… now…

Now, just as when Armageddon was coming to fruition, Aziraphale found that he wanted to cling. And that want hurt so badly, it made him want to run.

He was fighting the urge to tell Crowley that he felt it might be easier if they parted ways now. He was also fighting the compulsion to beg Crowley to take him somewhere, where neither Heaven nor Hell could find them. The sensation of being pulled in two directions was quite familiar, and he didn't like it one bit.

"Crowley…" Aziraphale began.

"No."

"What?" Aziraphale asked, nonplussed.

"You heard me. I said, _no_."

"No, what? You don't even know what I was going to say!"

"I do, angel."

"Something about this next looming disaster has made you able to read my mind?"

"I've always been able to read your mind," Crowley shrugged.

"That's ridiculous," Aziraphale commented, haughtily. "You have the same powers as I do! Being psychic is not one of them. Not as a rule, anyway."

"I'm not saying I'm psychic, and it's not about having powers."

"What's it about, then?"

"I know _you_, Aziraphale. And I know what you're thinking right now. You're as much an open book as any of those paper-and-glue thingies you have in your shop."

Aziraphale sat back in his chair and looked at Crowley with a droop-eyed tedium. "All right then. Amaze me."

Crowley stared at him through dark glasses for quite some time, before speaking. He wondered if he'd be able to get through this without his voice breaking, so he took a few moments to breathe steadily. "You're contemplating whether it would just be easier for us just to go our separate ways today, so as not to make the discorporation harder. You're thinking that being together is just going to make us want to hold on for longer, and holding on is not an option, so best be done with it sooner rather than later."

"How.. how did you…"

"You're not eating, for a start. That alone is enough to set off bloody _alarms_ in my brain. You usually inhale that coffee cake, and today, _nada._ Plus, you're sullen. You took my hand to bring me here, but since we sat down, you've stared into your untouched beverage and haven't made eye-contact with me."

"It's difficult to make eye-contact with you, Crowley."

The demon took off his glasses and laid them on the table. "Fine. How about now?"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale whispered, still unable to look him in the eye. "Put those back on! Someone will see!"

"Coloured contact lenses have been available to the public since 1980, angel. No-one cares. I only wear the glasses now to avoid conversations with humans. Now look at me."

Aziraphale tried. And failed. "I can't seem to do it."

"Remember the gazebo a month ago? You tried to tell me _there is no 'our side,'_ and that it was over, and you didn't even like me?"

"Yes," the angel whispered.

"You wouldn't look me in the eye then, either. You looked at my throat, or my shoulders, or my hair, the entire time."

"How do you even remember that?"

"Aziraphale, noticing stuff like that, little nuances of people's behaviour, _was my job._ Plus… you were breaking my heart. Of course I'd remember every goddamn detail."

"I'm sorry."

"So, at this moment, my only conclusion is, once we sat down, and you realised you _wanted_ the coffee cake, but weren't going to have it because it would only make things harder, then you realised the same thing about me."

"Crowley, I just think…"

"I've already said, the answer is _no,_ angel."

"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale exclaimed, feigning offence. "You can't just tell me _no!_"

"I can, and I did!" the demon snapped.

"Crowley, not so loud! People are looking!"

"I don't give a fuck if people are looking! You are _not_ going to walk away from me today of all days! Don't you dare push me away to make this easier on yourself. Again."

Aziraphale continued to stare at the table in front of him, about an inch from where the plate containing his untouched coffee cake ended. "I'm sorry, Crowley. I didn't… I mean, I don't…" He stopped to catch his breath, then started again. "I don't _want_ this to end, but it's going to. And this time, we can't make grand gestures to save humanity, because it's just _us_. And I don't think I have the strength to sit by your side at midnight, and know that… that's it - I'll never see you again. It would be far less likely to break me in two, if we said goodbye at a less-poignant moment. That's all I'm saying."

Crowley sighed, and took a long moment to study his companion. Then he sat forward, and pushed aside his plate and cup, leaned his forearms on the table, and said, "Let me ask you something, angel. Do you love me?"

For the first time since this conversation began, Aziraphale looked him in the eyes, surprised, a bit bewildered by the question. The expression on Crowley's face was crushing. His brow was furrowed, eyes crinkled, mouth gaping, and pain was written everywhere.

"Why, y-yes, Crowley," Aziraphale said, his eyes somewhat matching the searching, gripping pain he was seeing in those of his counterpart.

"Say it, then. Tell me."

"I love you." Aziraphale obeyed the command, without hesitation.

"Good. I love you, too."

"I thought you knew…"

"I did – I just needed a little reassurance. Because you say you don't have the strength to be with me when the end comes," Crowley said, still leaning over the table, barely moving his lips. His voice broke now. "But I don't have the strength _not_ to be with you when the end comes. I just don't. And if you… if you…"

"Oh, Crowley…"

"You say you love me, so that means you care what I want. What I think. And you care about the fact that I don't want to spend the last day of my life – I don't even want to spend one moment of this day – alone. I don't want to be without you, _at all_, ever again."

"I'm sorry, Crowley. So sorry," Aziraphale said, taking his hands. "Of course I care what you want."

"Then I want _you_," Crowley whispered, because he couldn't speak any more loudly. He gripped Aziraphale's hands hard enough to hurt. "Until the end. I want us to be _happy_ today, even if it kills us. And it will. Whatever we do, whatever it all means, we go out of this world together."

"All right. Happy. One last burst of happy."

"Promise me, Aziraphale," Crowley continued to whisper. Now, he had one of the angel's gripped fists pressed to his own forehead, and a few tears fell on his Danish. "Promise me you'll be with me today. Forever. And that I won't have to see that drawn-down, doubtful look on your face again."

"I promise."

"If you feel the need to make the face, just… do something else. Lean into me. Kiss me. Just… don't let me see it."

"Okay. I can do that."

"Promise."

"I promise," Aziraphale whispered back. His own forehead was now pressed to their clasped-together hands, and tears were falling down his own cheeks as well. "Of course I promise, Crowley. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'd never…"

Their other hands joined the knot of gripping between their tilted heads, and they clung to each other like the world was ending.

* * *

They stayed this way a long time, their hands entwined tightly, and both of their foreheads pressed into them, tears falling, time standing still.

Well, if only.

People stared, and talked about them, and they knew it, but they didn't care. Most people in the room assumed one of them had a terminal illness, or else they were breaking up. They had no idea how right they were, and yet, how wrong.

The moment was finally pierced by a familiar sound. It was coming from outside the coffee shop. They both recognised it at the same time.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Crowley chuckled.

It was Suzy Fly, the Meehans' yappy dog. They turned their gaze slightly outside, and saw Mr. Meehan tying her to a post beside an outdoor table, then sitting down in one of the chairs. He took a little treat from his pocket, and fed it to her. She sat down and wagged her tail, gazing adoringly at her person.

"Hi, you two," Mrs. Meehan's voice said from the other direction.

At that moment, the angel and the demon let go of one another, and looked up at her, startled.

"Mrs. Meehan," Crowley managed to croak out, whilst quickly replacing his dark glasses on his face. "Hi."

Aziraphale was dabbing at his nose and eyes with a napkin now, and he was handing a clean one across the table to Crowley, who then did the same, awkwardly lifting the glasses, trying not to let her see the yellow eyes behind.

Seeing that they were both in tears, she fumbled, "Oh, I'm so sorry, gents. I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll just go order my coffee and mind my own business. I do hope everything's all right. I'll be over there."

With that, she slid awkwardly away, and went to the counter to order.

"Maybe I can ask her to come mist the plants," Crowley said, watching her go.

"Why would you do that? We're going to be dead!" Aziraphale whispered.

"But if she comes in tomorrow morning and finds us, then our bodies won't rot there."

"Oh, good gracious, Crowley, that's morbid"

"Well, it's either that, or we wait for someone in the building to complain about the smell, and call the police. Which would be less traumatic to see? And which option would allow the flat to be resold in a shorter amount of time?"

"Ugh. I hate the thought of it."

"It's not my favourite thought of all time either, but it needs to be thought-about. Or, alternatively, we could go sit on the park bench in St. James' park, and let it happen there."

"So, we're found by whom? A mother and child out for a walk in the morning? A dog? An unsuspecting groundskeeper?"

"Aziraphale, there's just no good way to do this. I'm going for least impact, here. Here are the choices: A, Mrs. Meehan lets herself into the flat in the morning, finds our bodies freshly dead, thinking we fell to some bizarre obsessional suicide thing, or that we just, I don't know, had an apocalyptic shag, and dropped dead of heart attacks at the same time afterwards."

"Crowley!"

"I know, gross. But in that scenario, we're taken out cold, no fuss, no muss. Or, at least, the standard amount of fuss, and minimal muss. Or B, in two weeks, someone calls the authorities because there's a foul odour coming from the flat, and they find us _melted_ into the furniture. Although, I suppose in that scenario, we could spare Mrs. Meehan the trauma, assuming she doesn't horn her way in, along with the investigators. But the _tableau _will be much more disturbing for whoever does come upon us."

"Or C… St. James' Park."

"Where we would very likely make headlines, cause a sealing off of traffic through the park for a few days… actually, that sounds like fun," Crowley mused.

"It does _not_ sound fun!"

"Well, what do you want from me? I'm a demon. That's my wheelhouse."

Aziraphale frowned and shook his head. "I can't think rationally about this – it's all too much. I'll let you decide. Whatever you think is best, in your… you know, your _Crowley_ way."

"My Crowley way. Heh. Mrs. Meehan, it is."

Aziraphale groaned. "All right. God help her."

Crowley stared off into the distance for a few moments. "You know, angel, come to think of it, what's going to become of the bookshop?"

Aziraphale's eyes went wide. "I've no idea. I've never given a moment's thought to what would happen to it if I died. Never planned on dying."

"I suppose you could just leave it. Let the property fall to the council. I think that's what happens if someone dies without next of kin, or a will."

"No, no," Aziraphale said, brushing away the idea. "I couldn't let the council have all those books of prophecy – first editions, no less! They'd never realise the gravity of what they have, and it would go into an archive somewhere and become lost to the ages. No, I'll have to make a plan."

"Okay, but it'll have to be fast."

"I'll tie up loose ends at the bookshop, and you, Crowley… you make a plan for how we'll spend our last night. That sounds like the perfect job for you."

"Yes it does, doesn't it?" Crowley said, with a little smile. "So shall we spend the evening doing what we were meant to do?"

"I should say so, yes."

"Getting stupid drunk on the finest wine we can find, and reminiscing? Maybe a bit of filet mignon finds its way onto our plates? Or crêpes?"

"That sounds wonderful," Aziraphale said, sheepishly. "It really does."

"But?"

"Well, when you said _doing what we were meant to do, _I thought maybe some flying lessons might be in order. What would you say to that?"

"Flying lessons?" Crowley asked, a bit confused. "What, have you got a bucket list now?"

"No, no bucket list. Apart from this," Aziraphale whispered, again, breaking eye-contact.

"Flying lessons."

"Yes, Crowley. Preferably _advanced_. We haven't the time to work through the intermediate programme, have we?"

Crowley sat up straight in his chair. "Oh! Advanced flying… yes. Y-yes. As you wish."

The thought had occurred to him, of course, but he just wanted them to be together, and didn't want to spend their last bits of time together _coercing_. This was a welcome, delicious surprise. With this revelation, Crowley might actually get his wish, to go down ecstatic, and for them both to discorporate in the midst of the most poignant moments of pleasure of their very long lives. Mrs. Meehan might get an eyeful, indeed.

"Good. Thank you," Aziraphale said, in his tightly-pulled, Aziraphalian way.

"In that case, I have some prep to do. There's the wine shop, and the organic butcher's shop, of course. And perhaps a stop at the, erm… _advanced flying_ shop."

"Oh, my. Really?"

"Only if you want it to be... er, _not _painful."

"I don't know what that means," Aziraphale said, blushing. "Don't tell me. Just… do what you have to. And Crowley, are you all right with us splitting up for just a few hours, so as to maximise our efficiency?"

"Long as I know you'll be back well in time for dinner... and after."

"I will. I promise. Do you mind if I borrow your car?"

"Really?"

"Yes. I won't damage it."

"I know you won't. Yeah… no problem, knock yourself out. Where are you headed?"

"Tadfield."

* * *

**Please pardon the maudlin first half. I thought it appropriate given this pair's penchant for drama. Other thoughts?**

**Readers have been completely silent, and it's hard to keep going when that's the case. If you're reading, you're probably having feelings of some sort - why not let me know what they are? **

**Thanks so much for reading!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Aziraphale and Crowley embark on the last day of their lives...**

**… however, here, we take a bit of a B-road, on the way to finding out what happens next for our favorite pair. I have my own personal reasons for thinking it's important that Aziraphale tie up loose ends pertaining to his bookshop, before disaster strikes him. Also, I happen to really like Anathema and Newt.**

**Most importantly, we get to find out what Crowley says about Aziraphale, when Aziraphale's not about. Worth knowing, wouldn't you say?**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

EIGHTEEN

"You don't need to go all the way to Tadfield, angel," Crowley whined. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Hey, Google, what's halfway between London and Oxfordshire?"

The mechanical voice of his phone replied, "_To reach the midway point from Oxford to London, you would drive for about thirty-eight minutes or roughly twenty-nine miles from London to the halfway stop. The best place to meet, based on recommendations from Trippy members, is Windsor. The location closest to the exact midpoint would be Wooburn Common."_

"What does that mean, then?" Aziraphale asked, with a worried look. "And what's Trippy?"

"It means there are no good restaurants in Wooburn Common, so ask Book Girl to meet you in Windsor."

* * *

Anathema Device readily, if confusedly, agreed to rendezvous with Aziraphale at the Queen Charlotte restaurant in Windsor, where the angel had enjoyed quite a few good meals in the past.

It took him almost precisely one hour to drive there in Crowley's Bentley (whereas they had almost always reached Tadfield, normally a two-hour drive, in less than forty-five minutes when the demon was behind the wheel), as he travelled at exactly the speed limit the entire time, and obeyed all applicable traffic laws.

He was slightly dismayed to find that the restaurant had been remodeled and modernised, but that was the way of the world, wasn't it? Well, he ought to know. He remembered Windsor Castle being built. And it had been modernised several times, as had everything around it, including the monarch who occupied it.

Everything had changed _around him_, as well. And it would continue to change tomorrow. And the day after that.

He tried not to think wistfully of all the castles he'd never see built, and all the restaurants he'd never see restored. He tried to force down the fear and dismay he was feeling, reminding himself that humans, every one who had ever lived, had faced the reality of the things they would never see or do, just because they had less than a century in which to see and do everything they were ever going to see and do, and most of them had done just fine. Life is finite. Everything dies. Including now, himself and Crowley.

Six thousand years was a good run. But wasn't it natural to wish for more time? Or that one had had more of an actual _run?_ Wasn't it natural to now think about all the times when he _could_ have lived more? Acquiesced to Crowley's innuendos, and to his own desire to seize the day? After six millennia, the two of them had had _three days_ to really be together, to explore everything they felt…

…God damn this timing!

He sighed as he walked into the restaurant, for what was to be his penultimate meal, ever. He assumed that Anathema would bring her paramour with her, so he asked for a table for three. All things considered, he could think of worse people to spend this time with. He was seated on a booth-bench against a wall, with two chairs sitting across facing him. He ordered one of their signature gin cocktails for himself, a pot of tea for his lunch companions, and waited to see familiar faces appear in the doorway.

He'd barely had a sip of his drink when Anathema Device and Newton Pulsifer appeared, saw him, and began to walk toward him. He stood up to greet them, kissing Anathema on the cheek, and shaking Newt's hand, and gesturing for them to sit.

The three of them (and Crowley, of course) had shared a few lunches in Tadfield, during the fortnight or so that the angel and demon spent there, killing time.

"So, where's Crowley?" asked Anathema, settling into her chair, while Newt poured them both a bit of tea.

"Oh, he's off running a few errands," Aziraphle answered. "He's going to the organic butchery for filet mignons, to wine shop, and the…" He stopped short, and instead of finishing his thought, opted to clear his throat uncomfortably. His friends did not need to know that Crowley was headed to the _advanced flying_ store. Not that they would understand what it meant.

"Oh!" Newt commented, looking back and forth between Aziraphale and Anathema. "You have a romantic evening planned, don't you?" He seemed rather too proud of himself that he had picked up on this.

"Newt, stop it!" Anathema scolded, actually lightly slapping his hand. "You _know_ they aren't… you know…"

The four of them had, in fact, had a few awkward moments in Tadfield when the humans had assumed the angel and the demon were a couple. Though the misunderstanding had bothered Aziraphale and Crowley, who had been taken for a couple many, many times, a lot less than it had bothered Anthema. In any case, clearly, Newt at the very least, still thought of them as such.

"Right," Newt sighed. To Aziraphale, he said, "Sorry."

"No, in point of fact, Anathema," Aziraphale said, almost sadly. "He's right. We _are _planning a pleasant evening together. Romantic, if you like."

Anathema smiled widely, as though she couldn't contain her joy. "You are? You guys finally _are_? You're together? You're a couple now?"

"Er, yes," Aziraphale answered sheepishly, unable to contain the smile, in spite of himself.

"That's fantastic!" And she poured some tea for herself and Newt, then held it up for a toast. "To you and Crowley!"

The gesture charmed Aziraphale, and he lifted his cocktail to _clink_ with her cup. "Indeed," he said, with a little bit of a sinking feeling, but nevertheless a smile, then took a sip.

Smiling knowingly now, Anathema said, "Do you remember that afternoon when the four of us went to the Angler's Stop, in Tadfield, and had those God-awful crab cakes?"

"Oh, yes! Those were absolutely dreadful! I'll remember those for…" Aziraphale began. Then, he remembered what he was about to say, and how fraught it all was. "…for the rest of my life." He gave them an uneasy smile.

"Well, I have to confess something," she continued, conspiratorially, delightedly, not seeming to notice his darker, diffident reaction. "When you got up to wash your hands, I attacked Crowley with questions."

"You didn't!" Aziraphale said, genuinely half-appalled.

"She did," Newt told him, with a distasteful look on his face. "It was awful. Thank goodness you were only gone for two minutes."

"Well, I'm sorry," Anathema sighed. "But I could see it all over both of your auras. It was practically screaming at me – you guys are in love. Or at least, you know, meant to be together somehow. And I couldn't understand how you could _not_ be a thing."

"A thing?"

"Yeah, you know, in a relationship."

"Well," Aziraphale said. "What did Crowley say?"

"He tried to play it cool, tried to deny it altogether," Anathema told him. "But I pressed, because that's what I do. I said auras don't lie. I said I picked up joy and longing from him at the same time, and longing and trepidation from you. But when you look at him, there's joy. And when I told him that, he cracked. He talked very quickly until you came back, though somewhat reluctantly."

"_Somewhat reluctantly? _He just talked so you'd shut up," Newt told her.

"I don't care," she told him. "He cracked."

"You told him all that? About the auras, and when I look at him…" Aziraphale asked.

"Yep."

"Is it all true? This was what you saw?"

"Yes, absolutely," Anathema said, quite seriously.

"And when you say _he cracked_, what exactly does that mean?"

"He said you'd been friends for about six thousand years," Anathema said. "That the friendship and respect between you has been palpable for as long as he could remember, and some brand of love and lust at least for the last few centuries."

"I suppose that's fair enough."

"He said he begged you to help him save the world, so he could be with you, but that he didn't come right out and tell you that's _why _he wanted the world saved, because he was a bloody coward," Newt offered.

"Excuse me?" Aziraphale asked.

"His words," Newt qualified.

Anathema went on. "Then he sort of sighed, and said that you can't be pushed. He said you're an ethereal being with so much more to give than just to him, so he hasn't wanted to ask for too much, because an angel's got a job to do, and a demon's got to keep his shit together."

"He said…" Aziraphale mused. "I have more to give than just to him? So he hasn't wanted to ask…"

"Yeah. I expect he doesn't want to take up too much of you. You've got bigger fish to fry, he's just a kipper. I know that feeling," Newt confessed, taking Anathema's hand, and giving her an exhausted, warm smile.

"But he already does take up a lot of me. He has for a long, long time," Aziraphale said, staring into the distance, not really in the moment anymore.

"Well, anyone could see that," Newt said with a smile.

"And I don't mind at all," the angel continued.

"Listen, Aziraphale, it all came tumbling out of his mouth like a combination of machine-gun fire, and vomit," Anathema shrugged. "I don't even know if he'd remember saying it."

"But he did say it," Aziraphale said, still staring off into the distance.

"Yes. And that was more or less when you came back from the washroom, and we resumed our discussion about Anathema's psychedelic mushroom collection," Newt told him.

"But while it lasted, it was beautiful," Anathema said. "His aura, the love and longing, pushed through so hard, I couldn't see his face for a few seconds."

"I think the idea that you guys wanted to save the world, just so you could be together, is absolutely gobsmacking," Newt confessed.

"I think it is too," Aziraphale said with a smile. He was filled with a flush of love, that he supposed Anathema could see quite clearly, and the whole thing became overwhelming. Tears burned behind his eyes, and he couldn't quite blink them back in time to stop them spilling over. They coursed quietly down his cheeks, and he quickly wiped them away with an, "Oh, my. I do apologise."

"That's all right," she said, reaching her free hand across the table for his hand. She squeezed it. "Makes you want to get home to him, doesn't it?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said, now unable to stop the tears. "But oh, you two. This is just… this is just _crushing._"

"What is, hon?" Anathema wondered.

"All of it. What you've told me about Crowley, him and me together, and how electrifying it's been, and how fraught with every emotion imaginable. And… the reason why I've asked you here."

"What's the reason?" she asked.

* * *

Anathema had cried when he explained to them what would happen at midnight, how their bodies would be robbed of their supernatural essences, leaving only empty shells. Heaven and Hell had no appreciation of the depth of what would happen, but there was really no way out of it.

She had not, however, readily agreed to take ownership of the book shop, upon his death.

"I'm sorry, Aziraphale," she sniffed. "Part of me really, really wants to. But the rest of me knows that it would be a huge responsibility that would eat me alive… and probably also my descendants."

"Yes. I understand," Aziraphale said, solemnly.

"What if I did it alongside you?" Newt asked. "I'll help you run it, I'll help you manage the stock, and I'll help keep you from getting to immersed in the prophecies…"

"Or all of the obsessive-compulsive minutiae that could come from owning a whole store full of rare, old books?" she asked, looking at him worriedly.

"I don't necessarily know what that means, but I'll try," he replied.

"Oh, sweetie…" she groaned.

"I quite fancy the idea of a livelihood selling books," he told her. "They're made of paper. I've never caused paper to stop working."

"And all of the shop's records are on paper," Aziraphale assured them. "No computers."

"But what about…" Anathema trailed off.

"What about what?" asked Newt.

"What about if we have kids?" she asked.

"You think we'll have kids?" he asked, wide-eyed with surprise.

"Maybe. Agnes thought so. I don't want them to be _our descendants _for the rest of time. Something like an antique book shop, that could become a family business. A family burden."

"It doesn't have to," Newt said.

"Look," Aziraphale said. "I can understand your reticence. How about this, then: all I would ask you to do is make sure that the prophecy books get into the right hands – whose those would be, I don't know, if not yours. But they will be yours to bestow upon someone worthy. A church, a scholar, someone like you, perhaps. The rest of the shop is… well, I won't say the rest of it is expendable, because there are quite a few valuable and rare volumes in there, but… anyhow, you could see the stock sold off, along with the property, and keep the proceeds for yourselves."

"My family already has plenty of money," she argued.

"Then we'll donate it," Newt said. "Share it with Tracy and Shadwell. Set up a charity. Something."

Aziraphale pressed on. "The point is, dear girl, you could inherit the book shop, and fairly quickly wash your hands of it. It's on a busy corner in a trendy part of London - you'll have no trouble selling it off to a night club owner, or some such. Your children won't have to know anything about it, should you have any. If all I can ask is that the books of prophecy are seen-to, then so be it."

Anathema stared off into the distance for quite some time, until she finally relented.

Aziraphale looked about to make sure that no-one was watching, and then snapped his fingers to produce a document, stating that upon the death of the current proprietor, A.Z. Fell, the so-named bookshop would become the property of Anathema Device and Newton Pulsifer. The three of them signed the document, and Aziraphale folded it, and stowed it in an envelope.

"Oh, one last thing," Aziraphale said, snapping his fingers again, producing a deed to a 1926 Bentley, currently in immaculate condition. "Would you mind seeing to the car, as well?"

* * *

Three hours after leaving Kiptyn's Coffee House, Aziraphale arrived at the bookshop. He knew that Crowley would be expecting him at home, so he telephoned, just to say he'd be one more hour, because he was going to arrange the records in a way that would be easy for Anathema and Newt to locate the prophecies, and identify which books, beyond that, were the most valuable. His bookkeeping was, as always, scrupulously up-to-date, so all he really wanted to do, in that area, was leave a note, explaining his fussy system. In addition, he simply wanted to say goodbye.

"I'm sorry, angel," Crowley said, through the phone. "Would you like me to bring all of the supplies _there_, and we can spend the evening on your turf? We can cook the filets on a hot plate, I suppose… given the right spices, it wouldn't be so bad. Or we could commit one last gross misuse of miracling, and conjure them, already grilled to perfection."

"That's all right, Crowley. Thank you for the offer."

"Are you sure? I mean, I don't have any particular attachment to this flat. I'm fine with leaving it now."

"No, no," Aziraphale said, sadly. "Once again, I feel I should let go, before I make things worse for myself. The bookshop won't mind. Honestly. I'd rather just be home tonight."

"Home," Crowley sighed. "Okay. I'll see you in an hour. Don't be late."

* * *

**Thank you for leaving reviews on the previous chapter. As you know, I'm extremely needy, and I really appreciate your efforts.**

**Thank you for leaving reviews on this chapter as well. Hint, hint. ;-) Please let me know your thoughts! I realize this wasn't the most exciting 2,500 words of fanfiction ever written, but we are headed somewhere.**

**The next chapter begins the business of Aziraphale and Crowley's final night together. Stay tuned! And thank you for reading!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Okay, here we go, into Crowley and Aziraphale's last night together. How EVER shall they spend it? ;-)**

**Which brings me to my warning: the latter half of this chapter is NSFW. Nothing "happens" yet, but the (ahem) descriptive language gets pretty juicy! One reviewer mentioned communication as being an important component of Crowley and Aziraphale's physical relationship... well, I agree. And that's where this chapter sprang from. Also, I began this journey with Aziraphale's "education" as something of a motif - simply put, at this point in his life, he's keen to learn about sex. So, I think he would be very stimulated having scenarios described to him... both intellectually and physically.**

**So, if you're not interested in the sexy stuff, here's where you should stop reading: when Aziraphale says, _"What's in the Stallion's bag?"_ From there, you should probably pick up reading again when chapter 21 is posted (meaning, skip the next chapter!).**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

NINETEEN

It was just after two o'clock in the afternoon when Aziraphale arrived back at the flat.

The two of them went down the hall to the Meehans' and knocked on the door. Crowley reported to the couple that he and his companion would be out of town for the next week or so.

"Would you mind coming in, and misting the plants?" he asked Mrs. Meehan, holding out a key to his flat.

"Not at all," replied the delighted Mrs. Meehan, holding a squirmy Suzy Fly under one arm, and taking the key in her free hand. The dog recoiled when Crowley attempted to reach out to her, but was all too keen to lick Aziraphale's fingers, and wag her tail when he smiled at her.

"They've had their misting for today," Crowley said. "We're leaving at midnight tonight, so they'll need another misting in the morning."

"I can do that," she agreed.

"The plants themselves are down the back hallway, and the mister is just sitting there on the pedestal next to one of the pots. Oh, and erm… there are a couple of plants in the bedroom. The one on the left."

Aziraphale momentarily frowned quizzically, but realised soon enough that Crowley was trying to ensure that Mrs. Meehan would find them.

"No problem," she said. "Would you gents like to come in for some tea and biscuits?"

The demon tried to beg off, but the angel couldn't help but accept. They spent about an hour in the Meehan's stylish, boxy, 1960's-themed parlour, having tea from the couple's last trip to the Middle East. Mrs. Meehan apologised for intruding upon them earlier, at Kiptyn's. Crowley and Aziraphale waved it off as _no problem_, but did not offer any explanation as to what had upset them both so much.

They dodged questions about themselves that would have been simple to answer, had they been human, ("How long have you been together?" "How did you meet?") but proved very complicated, under the circumstances. Instead, they learned quite a lot about the Meehans, including their first names (Louise and Oliver), how many children they had (four), grandchildren (twelve, the youngest just born five weeks prior), and all of their world travels (impressively extensive).

"Well, perhaps when we flit of to New York this Christmas, you boys can return the favour, and water _our _plants," she said, smiling.

"If we are in a position to do so, Mrs. Meehan, we would be more than happy to," Aziraphale said, with a tight smile.

They also learned that Mr. Meehan had been a commodities broker, and Mrs. Meehan had been an ED nurse before their retirement. This made Aziraphale, at the very least, feel better about the fact that she might, tomorrow morning, find their lifeless bodies whilst misting plants. Perhaps it wouldn't scar her for life, if she'd seen worse things in the ED?

After that, they returned to their own home, and retired to the kitchen. Aziraphale inspected the foods Crowley had purchased – two lovely-looking organic filet mignons, some crisp, perfectly-formed asparagus, red potatoes, and fresh truffles.

"What's in there?" he asked Crowley, pointing to a small black shopping bag, sitting on the counter. It had a barely-there logo on it, a slightly shinier texture of black, depicting the head and torso of a very sleek horse, and the word _Stallion's._

Crowley leaned on the counter with one hand, coolly. "Do you really want to know now?"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, crisply, suddenly realising what sort of store Stallion's must be. "I… I think not. Let's leave that until later, shall we?"

Crowley smirked, then began unpacking cooking equipment from cupboards.

Shortly, they began arranging their evening meal. They decided to prepare the filets sous-vide style, guaranteeing a slow cook, a tender texture, and locked-in flavour. They clipped, washed, and brushed the asparagus with olive oil. They cut the potatoes into manageable bite-size pieces, brushed them, then preheated the oven. They shaved the truffles to perfume the vegetables, then began the roasting. As an afterthought, Crowley mixed some crêpe batter for dessert, then made a raspberry reduction with a bit of brandy.

They opened the wine early, of course, and moved about the kitchen, chatting and laughing about their exploits both together and apart, having a different kind of side-by-side rapport than they had ever had. It was the sort of domesticity that could have spoken to a future for them, sharing space, sharing a home, sharing un-self-conscious reminiscences, everyday tasks, easy friendship, hard-earned love, reliable companionship… but neither of them stopped to take stock, because they knew it was not to be. It was a simple collection of moments to be enjoyed in the here and now, and that was it.

When it was finally time to sit down to dinner, the two of them were already half-drunk, ravenous, and miraculously happy. They had never had to live as though tomorrow would never come, and in spite of themselves, they found that this sort of moment-seizing made them forget their problems for a bit.

They toasted with Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and dug into a fantastic, lovingly-prepared dinner, each of them satisfied that they were spending this time with literally the only being in the universe worth seeing out life with. Crowley partook as enthusiastically as Aziraphale, while still enjoying watching the angel _experience _his food. They had dessert with coffee, and then pushed their plates aside. They sat at the kitchen table, grasping hands for a few moments, before Aziraphale became the one to break the silence.

"I heard something very nice about you today," he said.

"Really? That's rare. You're the only one who ever says nice things about me."

"Well, it wasn't so much something nice _about_ you, but rather, something nice that you said."

Crowley smirked again. "How many times do I have to tell you I'm not nice?"

Aziraphale smiled indulgently. "I think we're quite beyond that, aren't we?"

"Maybe."

"Anathema and Newt had a memory to share."

"I see. Well, I can't be held responsible for what I say when Book Girl attacks me."

Aziraphale chuckled. "Yes, you can. And I want to tell you, Crowley, what you said is beautiful, but not true."

"Sorry, I don't even remember what I said."

He squeezed Crowley's hand a bit tighter. "I don't have any more to give than just to you. I don't have, as they say, _bigger fish to fry. _Especially not now. Arguably, not ever. Nothing has ever been more important to me than you."

"Angel…"

"You could never ask for too much from me. You could never… _take up_ too much of me. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Crowley responded, looking at the angel through dark glasses, but betraying wonder, nevertheless.

"I can't bear the thought that you ever were hesitant to reach out to me because you thought I'd have better things to do than be with you. That I was somehow more or better than you. I'm sorry if I made you feel that way. What am I saying? Of course I made you feel that way."

"You're an angel," Crowley muttered, still a bit bewildered. "You didn't know how else to be. You didn't know how to embrace… anything, really. Not me, not your feelings, not even yourself, if we're being honest – only your work. God's work. You and I had a certain… rapport, but you lived by a protocol – we both did. But you, more so, because you were concerned with doing good, and _being _good. I didn't want to derail you from that. I couldn't push. Blimey, did I want to. But I couldn't."

"Well, you don't have to anymore," Aziraphale said, softly. "Or rather, you don't have to hold back. From asking, from taking, from pushing... from anything. Because I'm yours. Take up all of me."

"Take up all of you?"

"Yes. I have nothing to give, except to you. So let me give."

"Okay. I hear you."

"I can't make up for six thousand years of ignorance, of pig-headedness, but in the time we have, I…"

"Okay," Crowley repeated, nodding, pressing his other hand on top of the angel's and still studying him.

The two of them, once again, sat in silence for a couple of minutes. And once again, it was Aziraphale who broke it.

"What's in the Stallion's bag?"

Crowley looked across the room at the black bag on the counter. Without saying anything, he got up and retrieved it, then set it back down in front of the angel.

Aziraphale peered inside, and found two items. The first was a white rectangular box that said "Icicles" in black, on the outside. He opened the box carefully and found an item that was wholly unfamiliar to him, yet took his breath away.

It was made of clear glass. It was a narrow spade-shape on a pedestal, sitting on a wide base. He picked it up out of the box, and its length and width fit well in his hand.

"Do you understand what that is?" Crowley asked him, his voice low, smooth... tempting.

"I… I think so."

Aziraphale replaced the glass implement in the box, then looked inside the bag again, and extracted the second item. It was a tiny bottle, no larger than a lipstick, of lubricant.

"And that?" Crowley asked.

"Yes, this I understand."

"Good," Crowley muttered. He took a pause, and then said, "When you asked me to teach you advanced flying, you said that you didn't think we'd have time for the intermediate programme. But to be honest, angel, advanced is not much fun without the intermediate. So, you can call these little implements, _the intermediate programme_, if you like."

"Oh. I see."

Crowley leaned across the table and picked up the glass toy, and held it, leaning on one elbow, quite close to the angel. "Do you know what this thing is called?"

"Not specifically, no."

Almost without moving his lips, quite secretively, Crowley said, "It's an anal plug. Rather a flat, vulgar name for something so bloody beautiful, if you ask me."

"But it _is _unambiguous, which I appreciate," Aziraphale commented, starting to grow a bit breathless.

"You just asked me to let you _give._ Well, you got a taste of that last night, so to speak. So you must know that if I, no-holds-barred, showed you how to _give_, it might..." Crowley cupped his own head between his hands, and made an _explosion_ gesture with his fingers.

"Yes, last evening was… a tad outside my comfort zone," Aziraphale confessed. "I don't ordinarily like hurting anyone intentionally, but somehow… somehow, it was…well, it…"

"I know how it was," Crowley purred. "I saw you rubbing your cock through your trousers, and I saw the little shudder, and wet spot that appeared when you came in your pants. I saw you, loving it. A real orgasm is one of the most honest things in the universe."

A wave of pure lust washed over the angel. Just like that, Crowley was off to the races with the dirty talk, and it was, predictably, electrifying.

"So I've been learning," Aziraphale said, swallowing hard. His voice was a tad shaky. "And it must mean that whatever it is you want, I will want it, too. We don't have forever, Crowley, and I want you to have everything."

Crowley smiled wickedly. "Ah. But what if we did have forever? Have you thought about that?"

"Of course."

"What sorts of hedonistic _things_ would we get up to, if we knew we had tomorrow and the next day, loads of time to be naughty, and try everything?"

"I have no idea. Tell me," Aziraphale practically begged.

He looked at the glass implement in his hand, and seemed to inspect and weigh it in the crooks of his fingers. "Well, I would have started a couple of hours ago, and I'd have had you sit there, all the way through dinner and dessert and coffee with this lovely gem inside you. And I'd have absolutely _relished _watching you squirm, watching you pretend to be a prim, proper angel like always."

"Oh my," Aziraphale moaned.

"I'd have to fight not to come all over myself, watching you moan over that sumptuous meal, like you do, while also feeling yourself spread open, getting filled, getting relaxed and ready for later," Crowley continued. Then he leaned in even closer, and whispered, "Getting ready for me."

"For you. Yes."

"Can you imagine that, angel? You'd be pressed in a way you've never been _pressed_ before. Every move you'd make would change its position just a bit, and make you feel something slightly new."

Aziraphale couldn't speak. He stared at the glass object, and tried to keep his breathing even.

The demon continued, "Do you know what? I might even fancy inviting people over. The Meehans, or even our favourite odd couple in Tadfield. I'd watch you shift in your chair and try not to pant and moan, try to be a congenial host, make polite conversation with our clueless friends…"

With that, Crowley sighed heavily, and his hand shifted to his groin. Aziraphale's eyes followed it, and could see that the black jeans were quite strained, bulging with extra girth now.

Crowley was now rubbing himself through the thick fabric. "Shall I go on?"

"Yes, please do."

"If we had forever, angel, I'd have you right here on the floor," he said, practically growling the words, breathless with the prospect of it.

"Would you?" the angel asked, equally breathless.

"Oh, yes," Crowley lilted, stroking the angel's cheek with two fingers of his free hand. "If this were a regular night, you'd be on your hands and knees by now. Those stuffy trousers and fine linen pants would be around your thighs, and our new toy would have served its purpose and would been discarded for next time. And do you know where I'd be?"

"Please tell me," Aziraphale practically moaned, his eyes shut, Adam's apple bobbing.

Crowley stood up and placed himself behind Aziraphale's chair. He buried his hands in the white curls, and pulled gently, until Aziraphale's head was resting against him. The angel could feel a straining, hard cock pressing into his back. He could feel just the slightest hint of a rhythm…

"I'd be behind you, fucking you into blindness. I'd be pounding into you over and over again. I'd be fiendish and gasping and cursing, and very quickly losing control..."

"Oh… God…" Aziraphale moaned as Crowley tugged harder on his hair. He was now, of course, completely erect and no longer felt any compunction about rubbing himself through his trousers. "Don't stop talking."

"I'd be listening to you pant and strain and beg, and watching you spill yourself all over the Italian floor tile."

"Crowley…" Aziraphale breathed.

Crowley fell to his knees then, and wrapped one arm around Aziraphale's neck and shoulders. He placed his mouth just a few millimetres from the angel's ear. His voice came out as an intimate, barely-audible whisper.

"And maybe, if I still had a bone that hadn't turned to jelly after exploding inside of you, I would let you do the same thing to me."

Aziraphale felt desperate, and as though his whole body was vibrating. "I'll get on the floor. If you want. Just tell me. Please tell me what to do."

"No, angel," Crowley said, now stroking, rather than pulling, the lovely white hair. "All of that would be… oh, it would be so much fun. It would be shouting-obscenities, forget-your-own-name, prickly-all-over kind of fun."

"Mmm?"

"But since we only have tonight, I'd like to do something I've never done before."

"And what would that be, Crowley?" Aziraphale mused, slurring his words, as though his voice were broadcasting in from another planet.

"I've never made love, Aziraphale. Never, in six thousand years."

"Never?"

"Never. Only pretended to."

"I see."

Crowley stood up, then leaned forward and placed a tender, upside-down kiss on the angel's upturned lips.

Then, barely audibly, he said, "But it's never been real. Because _you_ are the only thing I've ever really wanted, angel. And I can't believe I get to have you forever."

* * *

**Please don't hate me. Stay tuned for more!**

**Reviews are love... I would very much appreciate some feedback on this chapter. As always, I'm a little nervous about the naughty bits!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Okay, here we go, one last time into NSFW territory! If you're not interested in the sexual aspect of this relationship and/or "M" rated material, skip this chapter.**

* * *

**This sort of scene, once again, was inevitable, I think. Crowley and Aziraphale are about to, for lack of a better word, die. They have a very limited amount of time in which to do and say everything they need to, and to _be _everything that they need to _be_ to each other. **

**In the previous chapter, Crowley did some _descriptive narration_, shall we say, in asserting what he would do tonight with (and to) the angel if they had forever. But since they don't, he said he'd like to do something he's never done before: make love. Properly. **

**And so, in spite of a few bits and pieces of true smut, the goal here is for emotion and beauty in the chapter to take precedence over what is titillating about it.**

**And here we go. Please enjoy! **

* * *

TWENTY

Aziraphale replaced the glass toy back in the black bag, along with the tiny bottle, took it in one hand, and allowed Crowley to take the other hand and lead him out of the kitchen. As they moved through the flat, they turned off lights, and shut down for the night. Actually, shut down forever.

Crowley closed the door to the bedroom, took off his glasses and threw them aside onto a credenza. He approached, and smirked at the angel, genuinely unsure of what to do next. Somehow, his usual swaggering bravado wasn't going to do just now, neither would any filthy talk, nor pretentious lovemaking overtures.

Aziraphale smiled back, a bit sheepishly. He set the little black bag down on the end of the bed, moved toward Crowley, and said, "Here. This time, let me."

He took the pinstriped black lapels and tugged gently, and their lips found each other. Crowley groaned in surprise and delight, then opened his mouth when the angel's tongue came probing.

As the kiss grew hungrier and deeper, Aziraphale slithered his hands inside the demon's jacket and pushed back on the sleeves, until the wearer wriggled out of it and discarded it on the floor. He then untucked the charcoal-grey v-neck tee, and tugged at the hem, feeling Crowley's flat, sinewy, lightly-hairy stomach graze the backs of his fingers. Crowley took the hint, and pulled away from the angelic lips, just long enough to get the shirt over his head.

The angel then allowed his hands to rove over the demon's shoulders, arms, chest, back, stomach, explore the warm flesh as he'd often wanted to, in unguarded moments over the centuries, watching him saunter about, being beautiful and knowing it.

Aziraphale, too, now pulled away for just a moment, and smiled. "You are absolutely delectable, have I ever told you that?"

Crowley smiled as well. "Never with words. Occasionally with your eyes, if you thought I wasn't looking."

Aziraphale blushed. "Those blasted dark glasses. Can't tell _where _you're looking."

Crowley giggled a bit, and leaned back into the kiss, and once again, began the arduous task of peeling the angel out of his clothing… bowtie first.

When every stitch of both sets of clothing was properly strewn about the bedroom floor, Crowley gestured to the armchair, and said, "Sit."

Aziraphale obliged, then watched the demon saunter across the room once more, this time naked, apparently having found his groove again. He returned with the black bag.

"Do you understand why we have this?" Crowley asked, kneeling at the angel's feet, and taking the glass implement out of the box.

"I think so."

"One cannot just, you know… rush into advanced flying. As I said, this is the intermediate level. It will help you stretch and train your body a little bit, and make things much more pleasant for you in the end. No pun intended."

"All right," Aziraphale said, back to being the nervous, skittish angel he'd been twenty-four hours prior.

He watched Crowley open the little bottle of lubricant, and drizzle it over the spade-end, then spread it all over with his palm. Something about this little action made Aziraphale shudder, and begin, once more to pant. His cock had long-since been standing up, rock-hard, and he couldn't help but moan just a bit at the sight.

Crowley smiled at this, then asked, "Can you slouch a little for me? So that your lower back is on the cushion of the chair, and your knees are on either side of me?"

"All right," Aziraphale replied, properly, whilst pushing his bum forward, arranging himself the way Crowley had asked.

"Perfect, angel. Now, just relax."

He leaned forward, took Aziraphale's distended member at the base with one hand, and engulfed the head and shaft with his mouth. Aziraphale moaned deeply, his eyes first rolled back, and then closed altogether. He bit his lower lip rather hard as the demon's slippery mouth pulled back up tightly, only to dip down once more. Crowley's lips were now pressed against the base of the angel's cock, where it met his body, and the head was down his throat. He couldn't help but echo the deep moan, then pull back up yet again, tightly pursing his lips, and blurring Aziraphale's vision.

With a wet pop, Crowley released the head, and with an evil grin, he asked, "Feel good?"

"Oh, yes," Aziraphale answered, from the depths of his lungs.

"Good. Just let it."

Crowley dipped his head back down, and continued to work the angel's member over with his mouth, lips, and tongue. He could feel the difference, just since last night – Aziraphale had become much more comfortable with the idea of all of this, with having pleasure showered upon him, being serviced, with only enjoyment, love, and orgasm as the goal. Come to that, he, himself, was incredibly enamoured of doing this for someone, when there _was _no other goal than that… no ruse, no ultimate disgrace, no perceived soul-marring, no orders, no strings, and _no guilt_.

With that thought in mind, never stopping his oral attentions, Crowley reached for the glass tool, and pressed the rounded end to Aziraphale's tight opening.

Momentarily, Aziraphale's eyes opened, and he exclaimed mildly, "Oh, my," and looked down, attempting to see what was happening.

But Crowley crippled him with a flick of the tongue in just the right spot, and Aziraphale could do nothing but exhale helplessly, moan deliciously, and the spade was on its way inside.

Over time, Crowley worked it in further, then out again, little by little, distracting his receptive and superb partner with his mouth, helping all pieces of their intended lovemaking to fall into place, smoothly, and painlessly.

When the work was done, Aziraphale was certain that all of his senses were lost forever in a fog of hedonistic pleasure, and that he would discorporate from the impending explosion alone. His last thought was, "This will be bloody well worth it," just before he buried his hand in Crowley's hair, grunted a guttural obscenity, and released everything he had, filling the demon's mouth.

He panted for a few hazy moments, then opened his eyes, to find another pair looking back. A pair that were yellow, serpentine, and crazed with desire.

"Now what?" the angel asked.

"You tell me," Crowley breathed. "Only you can say when you're ready. Though, if I were you, I'd give it a few more minutes."

Aziraphale noticed that Crowley was, once more, rather absently, slowly, palming his own cock. It was definitely stiff, leaking fluid, and seemed to be suffering under the weight of anticipation.

So, the angel sat up slowly, and edged his bum back onto the chair, putting weight on his arms. Carefully, he let himself settle, and as pressure mounted against the instrument inside of him, he opened his mouth, and let out little curls of breath. "My goodness, that's extraordinary," he moaned. Then he said, "Stand up."

Crowley obliged, and in this position, Aziraphale slid the demon's entire hard length into his mouth, remembering a few of the "techniques" he'd learned the previous evening. Within just a few minutes, Crowley was grasping the back of his neck, slamming his head forward, and coming, with gorgeous, groans and throbs. Aziraphale happily swallowed it all, then relished watching the demon swoon a bit, before catching his breath.

Aziraphale stood up to join Crowley, guided him to the bed, and the two of them sank into it, and enjoyed another delicious few minutes of mouths searching each other, tongues dancing together, and moans and sighs twisting through the room together like perfect helices.

And when both were hard again, breathless and bursting, Aziraphale said, "Crowley, I'm ready."

"Okay," the demon whispered. "Sure?"

"Yes," Aziraphale gulped. "I'm ready. I'm desperately ready."

"Turn over on your side." Aziraphale turned and lay on his right, and Crowley spooned up behind him. He kissed his way across the angel's shoulders, and whispered, "Six thousand years, and it all comes down to this moment."

Aziraphale craned his neck back to look at his golden-eyed companion. "I've wanted this for so long, and I haven't even known it for most of the time."

"Me too," Crowley said, reaching down to pull on the glass spade. "Only I've known it quite well." He planted more kisses, nipped a bit with his teeth.

Aziraphale groaned as the tool moved slowly out. Crowley discarded it beside him, then placed one arm under the angel's head. Aziraphale instinctively grabbed that hand, and bent the elbow to kiss it.

Crowley reached out with his free hand, and made the little bottle of lubricant fly across the room. He drizzled a bit over his own aching member, then pressed his pelvis forward, placing it between Aziraphale's warm, rounded, fleshy buttocks. He moved back and forth, sliding it up and down, teasing the angel as much as himself, and making them both moan.

"Crowley, stop it," Aziraphale gasped after several minutes. "Stop playing games – I want you inside me."

"Oh…" Crowley groaned. "Say that again."

Aziraphale repeated himself, a little bit lower this time.

"Crook your left leg, angel," said Crowley into his lover's ear. "And breathe out, slowly."

As always, Aziraphale obliged, and he found his body being breached, penetrated, utterly thrilled. He'd been properly conditioned, and Crowley's cock slid in slowly but smoothly, and neither could help but give delicious, harried, moans of relief. And of perfect, piercing pleasure.

For a few moments, they just stayed this way… still, and interlocking. They had been in this state, metaphorically, for nigh on a thousand years. They had to take a few moments to breathe, to inhale the moment, to feel one wrapped around the other, in long-awaited, flawless warmth, fluidity, and just pure love.

"I love you," Crowley whispered in the angel's ear barely audibly, while lightly kissing his neck. "I've loved you for so long, I can't even say. Wanted you, wanted to be inside you, for even longer."

"And I love you," Aziraphale whispered, kissing the demon's hand, and the inside of his arm. "And I cannot think of any more moving a way to see out this life. One set of beautiful, longed-for moments, never to be repeated."

Crowley placed one hand on the angel's hip and began to move. Back, then forward. Out, then in. He pushed a bit, then pulled, buried himself, then pulled away… over and over again, slowly, deliberately, with care, kisses, groans, whispers, heads swimming with lust and love, words of heat and desire on their lips.

For the first time ever, Aziraphale now properly handled his own cock, wrapping his hand around it, and beginning to stroke.

"I love watching you do that," Crowley lilted, propping his head on one hand, and looking down.

Aziraphale said nothing, but put his head back, and turned up his mouth to be kissed. Crowley didn't disappoint of course, and their tongues found the rhythm, along with their bodies.

It was long and beautiful, more stirring than any experience of either of their lives – celestial, infernal, miraculous, sexual or otherwise. This was _it._

And with both bodies soaked with sweat, and now Crowley's hand having joined Aziraphale's, in pulling toward ecstasy, Crowley also found himself moving faster, grunting a bit more, and the angel found himself pushing back, meeting each stroke, relishing the _out_ as much as the _in._

And it all came to a glorious end in just a few moments when Crowley said, breathlessly, "I'm going to come inside you, angel. After all this… after everything… I'm… oh…"

He bit down on Aziraphale's shoulder as his cock spasmed, and every bit of desire and desperation he felt, all of the pent-up angst, even that which he'd been harbouring since the sexual relationship began only three days ago… it all came pouring out of him, and into his partner. He groaned, and thrust repeatedly, wondering if the explosions would ever cease… they just kept coming and coming…

In the same handful of moments, Aziraphale sullied the black bedspread beneath him with streams of thick white fluid, spurting out of him like a geyser. He growled the demon's name deeply, as he, too, came and came.

Panting, uttering phrases of disbelief, sweating, laughing a bit, they did not move, but rather, just held onto each other for a long few minutes.

Aziraphale said, "All I want to do is sink into sleep, right here, pressed to you, my body sated, and still buzzing a bit."

"What's stopping you?" Crowley asked, speech slurred.

Aziraphale craned his neck again, looking back to find the eyes of his companion. "If I close my eyes and lose consciousness, I know I'll never see you again."

"Well, maybe that's okay. Because what's left for us to do, other than just to be together? To be here, entwined, and… falling."

"Nothing, I suppose."

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the sheets and comforter slid out from underneath them, and then enveloped them both.

Crowley leaned forward and gave him a tender kiss. Lots of them, in fact, and this was how they did finally fall into sleep. It was around eleven p.m., and they'd said everything they needed to say.

* * *

**I hope you're not too saddened by this - they're literally spending the rest of their lives, seeking joy!**

**Now, having said that, please, please let me know your thoughts because this chapter has left me feeling a little gutted, in spite of myself. It was a massive effort... I'd love to know how you feel about it!**

**Thank you for reading! **


	21. Chapter 21

**Well, the story goes on, in spite of how it was looking for a while! *yikes* Sorry I made you sad, but now comes the hopeful part! Basically, things didn't go the way Aziraphale and Crowley thought they would...**

**As such, there's a bit of a bombshell at the end of this chapter... pretty sure you haven't seen it coming YET, but perhaps by the end of chapter 21, you will have!**

**We left off, of course, at the end of a passionate night for our heroes, which they believed would be their last. ****This outcome may prove a bit controversial, but I hope you enjoy, and I hope you _feel things!_**

* * *

TWENTY-ONE

Neither of them dreamed of doom and/or gloom. Neither of them had their trepidatious heads filled with images of death or discorporation, or even of Hastur or Gabriel. Perhaps the night's genuine realised fervour was enough to set their minds at ease with their presumed fate.

Rather, they dreamed of each other. But not entwined in a state of physical, feverish passion. Instead, they dreamed of being entwined in a cerebral, intellectual passion, forever. Both saw themselves sitting at a table, sharing wine and good conversation. They saw each other philosophising over something spiritual or banal, on park benches, in the back room of the bookshop, on the streets of Soho, in cafés all over Europe.

But mostly, remarkably, their dreams were abstract. Their thoughts and ideas and theories and words were just that, only they spun in the ether alongside each other, racing through time, spanning all of Heaven and Hell, impenetrable, complementary, for always.

A noise roused Aziraphale out of his sleep. It sounded faraway, but familiar.

He opened his eyes and concentrated, and realised he'd heard the deadbolt on the front door of the flat being undone from the outside. And now, someone seemed to be struggling with the doorknob, whose lock could be, admittedly, tricky.

"Drat!" he spat. "Mrs. Meehan!"

He threw off the bedclothes and stood up. He snapped his fingers, but nothing happened. He looked down at himself quizzically, seeing that he was still naked, though he'd expressly meant to dress himself…

With a tick of his tongue in exasperation, he hurried over to the closet, and reached in, grabbing the first thing he could find. It turned out to be a black Chinese silk robe, with a swirly red dragon pattern. It was Crowley's, of course, but he put it on quickly, since his own clothes were either across the hall, or in pieces all over the floor, some of those pieces inside-out. And miracling himself dressed didn't seem to be working.

He threw open the bedroom door, and hurried to the foyer, just as the neighbor was shutting the front door behind her.

"Oh!" she said, jumping a bit when she saw him. She grabbed at her collarbone. "You startled me!"

"Yes, terribly sorry about that," Aziraphale said to her.

"What are you doing here? I thought Mr. Crowley said you were leaving at midnight."

"Erm…" Aziraphale began, looking about, realising for the first time that he was _alive_, but he wasn't meant to be. "Yes, we thought we were, but apparently… well, we hit a snag. Of a sort. I'm not exactly sure what's happening now…"

"Oh, well," Mrs. Meehan said, shrugging. "Shall I give you back your key? You can let me know when you work it out, and I'll be happy to come back whenever."

"Yes, I think that would be best," Aziraphale said, reaching out for the key. She placed it in his hand with a little smile. "Sorry to trouble you, and make you trek all the way down here for naught."

"Not at all. It's a short walk. See you soon, yeah?"

"Hope so." He gave her a congenial smile as she waved, and walked out the front door. He locked it behind her, then hurried back to the bedroom.

During the night, Crowley's body had shifted away from the "spooning" position in which he'd fallen asleep, and he was now lying face-down, with his arms buried under the pillow, slumbering soundly. Much as he might have relished the idea of watching his lover lost in sleep, Aziraphale hopped up onto the bed, and placed both hands on Crowley's back, and began to jostle him.

"Crowley! Crowley, wake up! Crowley!"

Crowley groaned. "What?" he asked, without turning over or opening his eyes.

"What do you mean, _what?_ Wake up, you silly old demon! You're alive!"

Crowley stirred and pressed himself up into cobra position with his hands. "Oh. Yeah, you're right. What time is it?"

"I don't know," Aziraphale said. "But the sun is out, and I just had to run Mrs. Meehan out of here."

Crowley turned over and was now sitting, with the covers pulled up to his waist. "How are we awake?" He asked. Then, he rubbed his eyes, blinked hard, then looked at his companion. "And what are you wearing?"

A look of utter shock melted over Aziraphale's features, and he backed up from Crowley, into a standing position beside the bed. "Crowley…" he breathed.

"What? What's wrong?"

"You… your… "

"What? You're scaring me! What?"

"Go look in the mirror."

"Just tell me!"

"Your eyes…"

"What about them?" Crowley asked, now throwing the covers off himself. He stood up and hurried (still naked) into the adjoining bathroom. In about three seconds, he could be heard quite emphatically exclaiming, "_What the living fuck?"_

In the mirror, Crowley saw a man's face, not bad to look at, rather angular, topped with unruly red hair, well-defined jawbones, and a slightly crooked nose. It was the same face that had been looking back at him since the invention of the mirror, with one exception: today, it was looking through brown eyes.

He emerged from the bathroom and looked at Aziraphale, who was still frozen in place.

"Are you seeing this too?" Crowley asked him, uselessly.

He hurried back into the bathroom to examine what he'd seen.

Brown eyes with round irises, a round black pupil at the centre, and white surrounding. "How did this happen?" he called out, pulling his eyelids back to inspect further.

Aziraphale appeared in the doorway with a pair of black jeans that he'd picked up off the floor. "I'm sure I don't know. Here, put these on."

"Erm, hello, bigger fish to fry."

"You can't stay like that, Crowley."

"Why not? Suddenly you're _not _fond of my nakedness? Put them on me, if you must," Crowley told him, distractedly, still staring at himself in the mirror.

"I can't," Aziraphale told him, voice shaking slightly.

"Yes you can. Just, you know…"

"I can't," Aziraphale repeated.

Crowley squinted at him. "Why not?"

"I tried to…" and with that, he snapped his fingers to illustrate. "…dress myself when I heard Mrs. Meehan coming in. It didn't work. That's why I'm wearing your robe. It was faster than getting into my own clothes."

"Don't be daft," Crowley scolded, then snapped his own fingers, intending to find his bottom half covered with black denim. But it didn't work any better for him, than for Aziraphale.

His jaw dropped open and his brown eyes fixed on Aziraphale's for a few moments. Eventually, he reached out and took the jeans and stepped into them, pulling them on, buttoning them at the waist, pulling up the zip, in a completely normal manner.

"What's happening?" he asked.

"I don't know," Aziraphale responded. "I would suggest we consult the prophecies."

"I would agree. We left the laptop at your shop."

"Let's get dressed and go, post-haste."

* * *

For the first time ever, Crowley saw Aziraphale emerge from a room with his ensemble not completely put-together. He was wearing a dress shirt, trousers, and shoes, but no waistcoat, no jacket, no tie of any sort. He had wanted to save time, he said, rather than standing about trying to perfect his butterfly knot.

Crowley himself had just climbed back into the grey t-shirt that had been lying on the floor. He had tried again to miracle his boots onto his feet, but wasn't able to. So he pulled them on and laced them up, like a being with no magical powers. Through force of habit, he put sunglasses on his face, but was very conscious of the fact that he only needed them now for blocking out the sun.

They rode down, stepped off the lift, and exited the building. They turned left, and found Crowley's Bentley parked, as usual, illegally, just outside. Crowley removed all of the parking tickets by hand, cursing the whole time, but was not able to make them burst into flames and disappear, as he'd always done. He simply let them litter the concrete and blow away.

Then the two of them climbed into the car.

But the car went nowhere.

Crowley just stared at the steering wheel.

"Haven't you brought the keys?" Aziraphale asked.

"I've never needed _keys_, Aziraphale!"

"But you often carry them anyway. You said you like the feel of them."

"Yeah, well, half the time I forget, and the car moves anyway."

"Well, I'll wait here. You go get the keys."

Crowley turned and looked at him. "Keys won't help."

"Why?"

"Because I haven't put petrol in the tank since 1966."

"Oh."

"I lent it to someone as part of a temptation thing… long story. Anyway, that was the first and last time. And I'm getting the feeling that neither one of us could override the lack of fuel in an internal combustion engine. Especially one that's ninety years old."

"All right, then," Aziraphale sighed. "We take the bus to the bookshop, then. We've done it before, we can do it again."

Crowley cursed, then conceded, "All right. Damn it."

* * *

They let themselves into the shop, but did not open for business. Today was just not a talking-people-out-of-buying-things kind of day. Aziraphale walked up the stairs to his former flat, and vowed to return to the shop in a few minutes with a pair of espressos.

"We need to bring that machine home," Crowley muttered. "It's too good a thing to let sit up there doing nothing."

"We'll have to hire someone to carry it," Aziraphale muttered back.

While he waited, Crowley went to the comfy back room and fired up the laptop, and his phone, and readied the prophecies for reading. As he sat back on the sofa and sighed, wondering at their new lot in life, his eyes fell upon a set of volumes, arranged in a place of honor, atop Aziraphale's roll-top desk.

_Tao Te Ching,_ the Qur'an_, The Tibetan Book of the Dead, _a Talmud, and of course, the Bible.

Holy texts.

Crowley stood up and approached them. He'd handled them without HazMat materials before, of course, prior to the advent of such precautions. They singed him as might the ceramic surface of a bowl of soup, fresh off the boil… he could hold on long enough to move it a few feet quickly, but not with his whole hands, and he almost always found that he had to drop it, rather than set it down carefully.

He reached out for the Bible, and picked it up.

Nothing.

He held it flat between both hands. No burn. No singeing. No smoke, no pain… nothing. Just two hands, and a book.

"Blimey," he muttered, for the first time ever, opening the Bible, and casting his own brown eyes upon the very tiny words upon the page. Aloud, he said, "Jeremiah 48:10. _Cursed be the one who does the Lord's work negligently, and cursed be the one who restrains his sword from blood._ Oh, great. Now you tell us."

And that's when there was a knock that startled him so much, he wound up dropping The Book anyway. Someone was banging on the front door of the shop.

"Aziraphale! Are you expecting visitors?" Crowley called up the stairs.

"Of course not! Why?"

"Someone is here!"

"What? Who is it?"

"How the Heaven should I know?"

"Well, go and see!"

Crowley could hear Aziraphale's footsteps above, moving toward the staircase. He crossed the shop, threw the deadbolt, and pulled the door open just as Aziraphale made his way quickly down the steps.

There stood a familiar woman. She was wearing a white suit, and as always, a beatific look on her face. In her hand, she held what looked like a white leather clutch purse.

"Michael!" Aziraphale said from somewhere behind Crowley.

"Hello, gentlemen," she said to them, with a bit of a smile.

Aziraphale approached the door, peered out, and instinctively cast his gaze about, looking for the rest of the Archangel posse. "What are you doing…here?"

"I'm alone, Aziraphale, you needn't worry," she said. "However, I think it's best we find someplace private to chat, rather than stand here in the doorway don't you?"

Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley made a gesture that implied _after you_, and ushered her into the shop.

"Crowley, why don't you ready the back room for our guest?" Aziraphale said, hinting that the prophecies should be hidden.

"Right," Crowley muttered, and he disappeared behind some shelves.

"So, Michael," Aziraphale said, tightly, politely. "What brings you down to this plane of existence? I mean, you'll forgive me if I'm a bit jumpy. Last time you bothered to do this, you and Sandalphon and Uriel threatened, and then enacted physical violence upon me. I much prefer the, er… well, the method of communication you've been using recently."

Michael smiled indulgently. "Electronics? That's the method of Hell."

"All the same."

"Besides, Aziraphale, there is one key reason why that will not work now, and I think that you and Crowley are both clever enough to have already suspected that reason."

"Come on through," Crowley called out.

Aziraphale gestured for Michael to enter the back room, then he invited her to have a seat on the sofa. She perched primly on one end, and Crowley sat down on the other. Aziraphale moved toward his desk chair, stopping first to pick up the Bible from the floor, then sat down.

"As you may have guessed, Aziraphale, Crowley, I have some news," Michael said, setting her white clutch down upon the coffee table. "And Aziraphale has already pointed out that actually walking up and knocking on your door would not normally be something I'm likely to do. I'd be much more wont to get into touch with you via supernatural channels."

"But we are no longer privy to supernatural channels, are we?" Aziraphale asked her.

"Indeed, not," she said.

"What are we, then?" Crowley wondered.

Michael turned to look at him, and smiled. "Sorry, Crowley… I'm just curious. May I see your eyes?"

Crowley took off his dark glasses and put them on the table. His new brown eyes penetrated her gaze, and he asked, "What d'you reckon? Too pedestrian?"

She smiled wider. "Not at all. I quite like the new look. It's very… human."

"So that's what we are now," Crowley muttered. "Human."

"Yes," she confirmed.

* * *

**As always, I'd love to hear what you think, keeping in mind that more details, for better or for worse, will be revealed in the following chapter. Reviews are love, and that's the truth! :-) Thanks for reading!**


	22. Chapter 22

**So... our favorite angel/demon pair are now... human! Michael is in the book shop to help them understand. (I made her sympathetic because her character seemed to me a lot more nuanced than that of Uriel or Sandalphon, and certainly more intelligent than Gabriel. I thought that with her, the potential existed for "wiggle room," as far how her character could turn.)**

**I hope you enjoy/accept/feel satisfied by the explanation of how all of this happened. Earlier in the story, Uriel mentioned that flesh and blood and bone are standard on all planes of existence, and when they were casting Aziraphale out of Heaven, she said, the "non-standard" features of his corporeal form were "theirs" and they wanted them back. **

**I think that the above could be true of a soul as well. Certain features are simply "standard" for a sentient being created by God. Crowley and Aziraphale just got caught up panic and details. As we all know, they are fallible, and not always entirely level-headed!**

**Plus, as Michael points out, this all unprecedented!**

**I hope you enjoy... and that it makes sense to you, as it does to me!**

* * *

TWENTY-TWO

Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other with a mixture of surprise and worry.

Michael continued to smile, though oddly, Aziraphale detected nothing of her usual smugness.

"When Heaven and Hell withdrew their forces – took back our powers and supernatural energies – from your corporeal forms, we were as surprised, I reckon, as you are now, to find that you'd become, of all things, human," Michael explained. "Though, once it happened, it made perfect sense."

"We thought we'd become _nothing_," Crowley commented.

"Indeed," Aziraphale said in response. "We were told our souls would be released. We thought we would cease to exist, because, well, _we _knew that we hadn't sold ourselves to a third domain, and reckoned that once the Heavenly and Infernal essences were vacated, there would be only bodies left."

Michael cleared her throat uncomfortably. "I'm sorry you thought that. Last night must have been a terrifying time for you."

"We managed," Crowley lilted.

"Why didn't you say?" she asked him.

Crowley looked at her with tedium. "You know why. You lot let fucking Hastur convince you that we survived our executions by becoming part of some other supernatural plane."

"And that is… not true?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"No, it's not."

"And if you told us that, then you'd have to prove it by telling us how you _did _survive."

"Ding-ding," Crowley half-sang, half spat.

"Which would have given us the answer as to how to _actually_ execute you."

"Again… ding."

"I see," Michael said. "I could see how you might have felt yourselves in a bit of a Catch-22."

"You mean completely and utterly buggered? Yeah," Crowley said. "At least this way, we got to cease to exist together, rather than locked away in our respective dungeons."

"But _our souls_, Michael," Aziraphale interrupted.

"Well there's no reason to release them now," she told him, calmly. "As I pointed out to Gabriel."

"You did?"

"Yes. You're human now. Once all the Heavenly energies were removed from you, what was left was something like a human soul. You've always been made up of _layers,_ Aziraphale. We simply removed one or two of them. It just, it's the first time we've done anything like it, so it didn't occur to anyone that this would be the outcome."

"Same for me, then?" Crowley asked.

"Basically, the mechanics of Heaven and Hell are the same," she told him. "Barring things like holy water and hellfire. So, yes. The essence that makes up humanity is in all of us, it's just that angels and demons have it all wrapped up in other, supernatural, things. Which is why all of us – angel, demon, human – are so imperfect. The Almighty created a highly imperfect model, and She likes it that way."

"Don't I know it," Aziraphale muttered.

Michael continued, "Frankly, we thought you'd change corporeal forms, or, physically express your Third Domain aspect in some way. We thought it would be an aura, or a flash of light, or some such. But when we did a scan of Crowley's flat for supernatural presences, all we found was human presence. This is what made us realise that the so-called Third Domain has been known to us for always."

"Has it, now?" Aziraphale asked, a bit sarcastically. "Fancy that."

"Of course. It's humanity. A plane of existence that's just as powerful as Heaven or Hell… we were blind not to see it in the first place," Michael shrugged, with a bit of a chuckle. This was the first time Aziraphale could recall seeing her show mirth, without involving the humiliation of another angel.

Again, Crowley and Aziraphale caught one another's eye, this time with disappointment and dread. They had both been very keen for the two "organisations" _not_ to find out the truth about the Third Domain, and together, they had realised that their relationship itself may have kicked it off. Both were feeling the weight of guilt, because what did this mean now for humanity? Of which they were now part?

It was Crowley who asked the question. "So, what's next for us? Us, being… however you'd like to interpret that, I suppose."

"I don't know, exactly," she admitted. "Heaven and Hell are going back to the drawing board now, because there are a few things that need to be rethought."

"Such as?" Aziraphale wondered.

"Well, I probably shouldn't tell you this, since you're technically out-of-the-loop now," Michael said, a bit sheepishly. "But both sides are trying to work out how the two of you managed to become half-human in order to survive your executions, because they think it's a tool that could be well-used in diverse and sundry ways."

"Ah," Aziraphale grunted. "How wise."

Michael laughed lightly. "Oh, Aziraphale. It's not wise at all! But you already know that." Then, she sighed. "Sometimes I marvel at the ignorance of the average Archangel. Is six thousand years really _that _long?"

"I don't follow," Aziraphale said to her.

"Unlike you, most of _us_ don't take corporeal form very often, so it's easy for us to forget: our bodies were fashioned in the same way as human bodies were. Or rather, human bodies were fashioned in the same way as ours. At the basic molecular level, angels and demons who take corporeal form are no different from humans."

"Well, that's rather a sobering thought," Crowley pouted.

Michael batted her eyelashes at him. "Oh, come now, Crowley. You wouldn't have been half as good at your job if your body didn't_ function_ in the same way as those of the humans you tempted over the millennia."

"Y-w-…" Crowley began. "Eh, point taken."

"What makes us different is quite intangible," Michael said. "It's _layers _of supernatural infusions from Heaven or Hell that makes an angel or a demon, makes you vulnerable to certain things, and invulnerable to others, such as, again, holy water and hellfire. A touch of magic, and an animus that keeps the flesh fresh, and lets you escape things like sickness and starvation. You know all this, though Aziraphale."

"I suppose I do."

"That's a very down-to-Earth assessment from someone who spends the majority of her time… being intangible," Crowley said to her.

"It's just the truth," Michael said. "I'm sure Aziraphale has mentioned to you over the millennia that I'm a bit of a stickler. I'm pedantic and scrupulous in my way… it's something Aziraphale and I have in common. Gabriel and the others have all but forgotten their origins, and will be on a wild goose chase for a while."

"So how long before you stop them wildly chasing geese, and remind them?" Crowley wondered, sceptically.

"I wasn't actually planning to," Michael replied, folding her hands, and placing them in her lap primly, in a very _Aziraphalian_ manner. She kept her eyes cast down at the coffee table for the moment.

"You weren't planning to?" Crowley asked, incredulity weighing down his voice.

"The Almighty has asked me to keep it to myself for now, and truth be told, I would have anyway," she admitted, still staring at the table. "She wanted us to sort out the two of you for the moment, until things look more stable."

"Sort us out? What does that mean?" Aziraphale asked.

"Well, fortunately, She charged me with that task. Now that you're human, what do we do with you? So, to that end…" She reached into her clutch and pulled out two small items. They were flat, burgundy-coloured, and nearly fit in her hand. She separated the two items, and handed one to Crowley, and one to Aziraphale. "Here are your British passports – we've given you new identities. We think you'll find that they're very similar to your old identities."

Aziraphale opened the cover of his, and found an image of himself, snapped by Uriel's photographic device sometime around 1950. He had been surprised by her, and therefore found the image unflattering.

"Oh, this is a terrible picture," he complained.

"All passport photos are terrible," Crowley told him. "Just makes you that much more human."

Aziraphale looked back down at the document. "Aaron," he mused. "Aaron Zira Fell. I used that name long ago, when I bought the shop."

Michael smiled. "We know." She turned to Crowley. "And you, of course, are Anthony Jay Crowley. However, we don't have a photo of you, especially not one with your new eyes. So, hold still."

She pulled a thing from her pocket that looked like a Smartphone-sized pane of glass. She aimed it at Crowley, who frowned slightly, then puckered her lips and blew on it.

"There, that's done," she said.

Crowley opened the document, and watched an image of himself slowly appear upon it, with a white background, a frown on his face, and still incongruously brown eyes. It was a bit like watching an old-fashioned Polaroid develop, only the picture was infinitely clearer.

As she returned her glass pane to her pocket, she said, "We've given you both birthdates in the mid 1970's – please memorise them."

"21st October, 1975," Aziraphale muttered. "Somehow appropriate. I'm nearly forty-four years old. I look forty-four?"

Michael shrugged. "It's difficult for us to judge."

"18th April, 1976," Crowley read. "What's the significance of that date?"

"I just thought you'd like to be an Aries. You know… horns."

"Ah yes. Very considerate," he agreed, chuckling.

She dipped back into her clutch. "Oh, and here are your National Insurance cards… we're working on the rest of whatever documentation you'll need, in order to survive as Londoners now."

Crowley piped up then. "Why are you doing this? You'll forgive me, Michael, but obviously, I don't completely trust you. I mean… it just feels like the Almighty is trying to keep us busy whilst She brews up something."

"That might very well be true," Michael sighed. "All I know for certain is She asked me to sort you gents out. Amicably."

"Why would she do that?" Aziraphale wondered.

"I didn't ask," Michale told him. "However, if I were to guess – and mind you, I am in no way speaking for Her, I'm just philosophising – I would say that She is grappling with some questions at the moment, and She would like to keep the Archangel Network distracted and frankly, under control, whilst She… ruminates. A good way to do keep Gabriel and Uriel docile is to make sure that the two of you are, as they say, out of our hair."

"Whilst She ruminates. Over whether or not to try and destroy us," Crowley said. It was not a question. "Humanity, I mean."

"The Almighty is aware that the Archangels and Hell's ranks will be gathering steam for a war on the same side," Michael said. "This was not part of Her plan. Her plan, as you both well know, was averted."

"Right," Aziraphale said.

"She is, as far as I can tell, undecided on the war against the Third Domain. She's confessed to being disturbed by the idea that humanity has become just as strong as Heaven, but She wonders, then, why bother creating something amazing, if She's just going to try and keep it weak? I reckon She wonders the same thing about Hell itself. But then, how to keep everyone in check in the long-term, including the Archangels… that remains the question."

"So perhaps it's a good thing that we derailed the Apocalypse," Aziraphale said, dryly.

"I wouldn't press my luck if I were you," Michael warned. "But you might not be wrong. Because much to my surprise, the Almighty sent me here today with the gift of Her forgiveness, Aziraphale. And Crowley, She would like to do you a favour, if you so desire."

"So, it does sort of sound like She's a bit glad the whole Armageddon thing went tits-up, if She's willing to bend to us a bit now," Crowley teased. "Tell me, is this a particular favour? Or do I get to pick?"

"It's a particular favour," Michael said, indulgently. "She's giving you – both of you – the choice of whether to remain human, or to return to your former states as angel and demon, indefinitely. Now that all of this withdrawing-of-power chaos and misfire has reached Her, She is taking it in Her own hands. I'm to sort you out for the time being, but ultimately, you'll be given the choice."

"Wow," Aziraphale exclaimed, with eyes open wide, looking at Crowley. He found Crowley's brown, human eyes, staring back. They would take some getting-used-to.

"Being human, of course, would allow you to be together, which seems to be very important to you," Michael said, with no mocking, no irony, no judgement whatsoever. "And we deal in love, at the end of the day… at least, that's how it's _supposed _to be. You'd be free to live your lives unfettered, unwatched, as human as can be. You would no longer be on opposite sides of anything, and in the twenty-first century in London, people have finally realised for the most part, the Almighty doesn't care who you love, as long as you _do _love."

"Amen," Crowley commented.

"You'd have to get proper jobs – well, at least, _you_ would, Crowley – and you'd have to start paying for your flat, and putting petrol in your car, et cetera, et cetera. But being supernatural beings again would allow you to fight in the coming war, if you so desire, should a war come. And you'd have powers, and a line to Heaven and Hell, and you'd be stronger, and more invulnerable."

"Ugh," Crowley groaned, pulling his hand down over his face. "Fighting. Against the end of the World as we know it. Again. That sounds utterly exhausting."

"Mind you," Michael went on. "Who's to say which side you'd fight on? I mean, I, personally have learned that neither Heaven nor Hell should expect to have any success whatsoever in dictating to the two of you where your loyalties ought to lie, but that's just my own observation." She cleared her throat primly, and stifled a smile.

"Okay, next question… amid a veritable hurricane of insanity…" Crowley said, his thoughts and words disjointed. "Why are _you_ being so nice?"

Michael sighed, and then looked Aziraphale in the eyes. "Aziraphale, I have something to confess."

"Yes?"

"I'm the one who brought your _friendship _with Crowley to light. In the midst of all the Armageddon business, I went through the Earth surveillance files – which no-one _ever _looks at – and found evidence of the two of you fraternising. I showed it to Gabriel, then, I'm ashamed to say, I alerted Ligur to it, and put Hell onto you."

"Michael!" Aziraphale breathed. "Is all of that true?"

"I'm afraid so," she told him. She showed some genuine sadness as she spoke. "Without that little bug in their ears, no-one would have put either of you on the radar for actual treachery, and no-one would have realised that you were working against the Plan, and ultimately it almost got you killed. Destroyed."

"Yes, it did!"

"Well, you managed to survive your executions, and we still don't know how, and I have to admit, I was a bit relieved, even though I was the one who delivered the holy water to hell… following orders.

"And then, Aziraphale, you were cast out! And I felt terrible about that because… well, again, the Almighty created all of us imperfect, and I'd been in contact with Ligur for half a millennium or so, so who was I to judge you?"

"You had?"

"Well, not like you two," she said. "We weren't what you'd call _close. _But I found him… entertaining, at times. We just commiserated now and then. Never in-person, and we didn't, say, get drunk together, or go to the theatre together. But I'll admit to finding reasons to ring him, once a decade or so, just so I could complain about Gabriel. And if we happened to cross paths, we'd have a chat. It could be a laugh, under the right circumstances."

Crowley laughed out loud. "That might be the best news I've heard all year!" And he cackled with delight.

"Honestly, apart from the Armageddon thing, Aziraphale, you've done a stellar job. You may have thought I wasn't impressed with your work, but I was. And your relationship with Crowley, as far as we can tell, has never hurt your performance. In fact, if the two of you have been in love for as long as the surveillance suggests, I daresay it may have _helped _you understand humanity better, and bless them more deeply. And Crowley, I can't say I understand you at all, but then, I don't think I was meant to."

"I think you're probably right," he whispered.

She sighed heavily. "And yet, Aziraphale, suddenly there I was, responsible for your downfall. I tried to keep it from happening, but I was overruled. So then, when we were contacted by Beelzebub about this Third Domain business, and I saw a way to buy you some time…"

"You talked Gabriel into suspending all changes in personnel," Aziraphale said.

"Yes. And then _this_ happened, and the Almighty put me in charge, so here we are. Passports, identities… Crowley's brown eyes," she said.

There was a heavy silence in the bookshop, whilst the three of them looked from one to the other, and back again.

"How long before we have to decide?" Aziraphale asked, breaking the silence.

"Why don't I come back in a year?" she suggested. "Three hundred sixty-five days for the two of you to live. Just live your lives. Be together. Talk it over. Consult the prophecies…"

"The prophecies?" Aziraphale chirped, uneasily. "Why ever would you…"

"You _must _have kept a copy, Aziraphale," she smirked. "Gabriel might have been fooled when you handed over the manuscript, but I was not. You _do_ have a way to access Agnes Nutter's second volume, do you not?"

"I do," he admitted, quietly.

"Good. Do your research. Work out what might happen. Decide where you want to be when that time comes. Human or supernatural? Dead or alive? Just know that if you come back into the fold, Crowley, you're still a demon, and Aziraphale, you're still with us. You will be watched. I can keep surveillance out of the bookshop and out of Crowley's flat, but that's it. No promises on St. James' Park, or the Ritz, or any other public spaces."

"Fair enough," Aziraphale conceded.

"Incredible," Crowley said, looking at Michael with disbelief.

"Yes?" she asked, a bit nonplussed by the attention.

"You're an Archangel," he said. "And yet, you're bringing forgiveness. You're actually trying to help. You're seeing grey area, seeing beyond the dogma and the protocol."

"Yes, this is how it's supposed to be," she told him, with a smile.

"I know, but… well, until today, I wasn't sure if any actual Archangel knew that."

"I've spent enough time being prickly," she told him. "I found that when the idea of casting out Aziraphale arose, it flared up something in me that I guess had been dormant. I felt sick and appalled. I felt, dare I say it? _Empathy_, and regret over, as they say, screwing over a colleague."

"Well, we thank you, Michael," said Aziraphale.

"You're welcome. Just keep in mind, if Gabriel finds out, he'll kill all three of us."

"Right," said Crowley.

"Right," echoed Aziraphale.

"That's one of the great disadvantages to having a boss who's a moron. So lay low," she advised. "I'll see you in a year."

* * *

**That, my friends, is the penultimate chapter - weird as it is. All that remains is a short, sweet epilogue.**

**I do have an idea or two jotted down, should I choose to address "the big one," when Heaven and Hell go after Humanity and Crowly and Aziraphale have to intercede. But the idea is underdeveloped, and would very likely be anticlimactic. I'm not sure if I'll go there.**

**I also have a couple of OTHER Good Omens fanfic ideas to toy with (related to this story and the previous), and I'm fully planning on returning to the Doctor Whoverse, so... well, the future looks scattered.**

**Please let me know your thoughts. About the Chapter, about "the big one," about further ideas - whatever strikes your fancy! Thank you for reading - one more to go!**


	23. Epilogue

**This is the short but sweet ending of this leg of our saga. "The Third Domain" of the title has turned out to be the life in which Crowley and Aziraphale now find themselves, in addition to being a discovery, a ruse, an excuse for a new war... however one chooses to see it. From here, they embark on a new journey as twenty-first century (A.D.) humans, who will need to get used to new bodies, new logistics, new love.**

**Here, we explore a little bit of that - what do they learn about being human in the first twenty-four hours? How shall they proceed?**

**Thank you for reading all along, and I hope you enjoy this final bit. Stay tuned for a few words at the end!**

* * *

EPILOGUE

They were human now, and therefore vulnerable. But they were very, very together, and that made them stronger.

It was now much more difficult for the agents of Heaven and Hell to locate and contact them, and a lot riskier as well. Humans can't perceive, for the most part, supernatural presences… and Crowley and Aziraphale found this fact very freeing.

They'd spent the rest of the day, after talking with Michael, as they had originally planned: reading the prophecies, and doing their best to interpret, via research, discussion and good old-fashioned educated guessing.

Then they'd returned home and learned a bit about being human. For a start, they had had wine with dinner, and quickly realised that it now took significantly less of it to render them drunk. They were "feeling it" after two glasses each, and, to their annoyance, they could not simply concentrate on sobering up, and make it so.

"How do humans _not_ stay drunk forever?" Aziraphale asked, pacing about the kitchen, feeling inexplicably agitated.

"Erm… well, they urinate, for a start."

"Oh! Is that why I feel like I shouldn't sit still?"

"Probably!" Crowley replied, laughing.

"Oh, bugger!" Aziraphale spat, rushing from the room. Crowley then heard a toilet flushing, and when Aziraphale returned, he looked crestfallen. "It didn't work. I still feel loopy as a corkscrew."

"As I understand it, the alcohol has to work its way out. It makes its way through the bloodstream and… I don't know. Oh wait, I know! Eating bread! Supposed to help with the sobering-up!"

"Really?"

"Yes, I learned that in Italy during the Renaissance from a serving wench named Giovanna!"

"I see," Aziraphale lilted, adorably posing with one hand on his hip. "And what, pray tell, did you tempt _her _into doing?"

"What, you want, like, details?"

"Goodness, no," Aziraphale said, with a laugh.

"Also, coffee," said Crowley.

"What?"

"For sobering up."

"Oh! Okay, that makes sense. Caffeine."

"But I've heard that it works damn slowly."

"I think we're going to find over the next year or so that _everything _works damn slowly," Aziraphale sighed, reclaiming his seat at the table.

"Except time itself, ironically."

"Yes. Yes."

* * *

None of this stopped them from slipping off to bed early, though there was no sleep in the cards until the wee hours. And as it happened, Crowley realised that he'd have to adjust to what a human male body could do in the bedroom, at fortysomething years old after quite a bit of wine. He found that the whole affair required concentration, of a sort which he'd not been accustomed to giving the pleasures of the flesh...

Aziraphale noticed nothing amiss, but Crowley vowed _no more alcohol before shagging_, unless and until he could do the research to find out how to combat this travesty.

* * *

The following day, they didn't arise until almost noon, realising two new things. Firstly, humans need sleep. They actually _need _it, and when one doesn't rest until three in the morning, the body will compensate. Secondly, hangovers are a thing.

Aziraphale went to borrow some medicine from Mrs. Meehan, having no idea what to ask for, but reckoning the former nurse had something on-hand.

"Erm… hi," he said to her. "My companion and I have had a bit too much in the way of libations… last night, that is. And today, we're finding that we are unwell, which is, I can tell you, a highly unpleasant state of affairs."

"Libations? A highly unpleasant state of affairs?" Mrs. Meehan asked, with amusement.

Even Aziraphale could hear the Archaic English Dandy in his speech now.

"Yes, well, I suppose you'd know that, wouldn't you, having been a nurse? Anyhow, what sort of thing would you suggest as a remedy?" he asked.

Mrs. Meehan looked at him with tedium and a tad of disbelief, and didn't understand why Mr. Fell couldn't just ask, "Have you got any aspirin?"

She said, "You're telling me neither one of you has ever had a hangover before? At your ages?"

"It's not so much that we've _never_ had them, it's more… well, it's been a long time. Centuries. Wait, no… centuries is too long. Decades?"

She stood staring at him quizzically for a few moments, before speaking. "I'll be right back," she said, leaving the door open, and heading for her bathroom cabinet.

Aziraphale wondered if other humans had this much trouble communicating with each other.

* * *

Meanwhile, Crowley checked his phone, and found a tearful message from Anathema Device, which she probably thought he would never hear.

Aziraphale returned to the flat with four Paracetamol tablets and handed two to Crowley. "Apparently, we take them with water? Do we break them up and dissolve them?"

"No, swallow them whole. Wash them down."

"Oh. Okay. How do you know this?"

"Erm... the 1960s were an interesting time in the temptation business," Crowley said, making his way to the sink, began running the water, and filling a glass. "Especially for a demon trying to lay off _free love _and needing to find other avenues of hedonism in which to mire the human animal. Let's just leave it at that."

"Gladly," Aziraphale said, curtly, pretending to study the pills in his palm.

"By the way," said Crowley. "We have to call Book Girl and Breaks-Things Guy and tell them we're alive."

"Oh, blast it, you're right!"

* * *

And so, the two of them took their Paracetamol, then the four of them convened for lunch, this time in London, upon Anathema's insistence.

"We've decided to move up here," she told them, sipping her tea.

"Really? That's lovely news!" Aziraphale exclaimed.

"Yeah, well, when we talked about inheriting the bookshop, we more or less decided to try to run it ourselves rather than sell it off," Newt reported. "To do that, we'd have to move Londonwards."

"Although, don't get us wrong," Anathema qualified. "We're over the moon about the fact that we're not inheriting it!"

"No offence, but so are we," Aziraphale admitted.

"But, the more I thought about living in London, the more I liked the idea," Anathema said, delightedly. "I only settled in Tadfield so I could find the Antichrist. But I grew up in L.A. I'm a city girl. And London is much closer to Newt's mom."

"We're going to let Tracy and Shadwell have Jasmine Cottage, since they're keen to get out of the city, and we'll find a new place. Although, now that we don't have to run the bookshop, I suppose we don't have to be near Soho," Newt said.

The foursome then discussed different places around town where it might be fun to live (since Anathema had plenty of money, they could afford just about anything), they discussed being human, being free, being in love, and the coming war.

"I can't believe we have to go through all that rubbish again," Newt groaned.

"It may never fall upon you to do anything – we just don't know," Aziraphale said. "We're studying the prophecies, don't worry – you don't have to do any of that anymore. We'll keep you updated if we find anything that concerns you."

And then, the couple from Tadfield went off to check out flats, and the other couple walked along the Thames and talked about tying up loose ends.

"I suppose I'll have to have the car towed, and some petrol put in it," Crowley sighed. "They're going to think I'm mad."

"And you'll actually have to be a careful driver, now," Aziraphale reminded him. "You won't be able just to magically _not_ hit anyone as you go, and if you get a dent, you'll have to pay to have body work done. Not to mention, if you crash, you might actually die."

"Ugh," Crowley groaned. "Being human is harrrrrrd."

Aziraphale laughed delightedly. "Then, this might not be the best time to mention getting a real deed to your flat, actually paying bills…which brings us to the question of employment, Crowley. I have money to last us a long, long while – possibly the whole of our two human lives. But honestly, you're going to have to find something to do with your time. You can't just laze about being all tempting anymore."

"Can't I?"

"Well… not during the day," Aziraphale said, a bit sheepishly, batting his eyelashes nevertheless.

They walked in silence for a few moments. "I suppose, if I got a job working in media, I could keep an eye out for, you know… the Kraken. Tibetan tunnels coming out of nowhere. Ridiculous weather…"

"It's not going to be like last time, you know," Aziraphale scolded.

"Oh, come on, I know that," Crowley scolded back. "But it would allow me to have my ear to the ground, so to speak. What stories are breaking, and are any of them apocalyptic-sounding?"

"Not a bad idea," Aziraphale commented.

"'Course not. But let's have a proper holiday first, yeah? Before we get stuck into eight-to-five behind a desk, paying bills, daily grind and whatnot… what say you?"

"I say, that sounds wonderful. Where would we go?"

"Where has neither of us been?"

They walked in silence again for a few minutes, thinking. They realised that between the two of them, in six thousand years, they'd managed to cover most of the planet.

"There's always Alpha Centauri," Crowley suggested with a smile.

"We'll call that plan B," Aziraphale said. "How about we keep it simple? The south of France. Sun, blue sky, good food, good wine."

"It's all beaches," Crowley said. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

"Will you be there?"

"Er… yeah."

"Then it's what I want," Aziraphale said simply, taking Crowley's hand.

* * *

**And that's it, folks, for this bit of ineffable saga!**

**As I mentioned previously, I do have a few ideas jotted down... I've decided "push up" in the queue a plot bunny I'm nursing - a bit of fluff about the human lives of the formerly angelic/demonic pair, and the simple pleasures of Earthly living. It might be called "Creature Comforts" when it does appear, but I have no idea, at this juncture, when that will be!**

**Once again, thank you for reading, and I hope you'll leave a review with your thoughts! *smooch!***


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